r  LIBRARY  j 

UNIVERSITY  OF  I 

CALIFORNIA  I 

!sAN  DIEGO  1 


J 


'<^„Vp^  /t^i<^>-^ 


Boston,  135  Washixgton  Strbbt, 
May,  iBol. 

.     NEW  BOOKS  AND  NEW  EDITIONS 

PUBLISHED    BY 

TICKNOR,  REED,  AND  FIELDS. 


HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW'S  WRITINGS. 
Complete  Poetical  Works.     This  edition  contains 

the  six  Volumes  mentioned  below,  and  is  the  only  complete  collection  in 
the  market.     In  two  volumes,  16mo,  $2.00. 

In  separate  Volames,  each  75  cents. 
VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 
BALL.\DS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 
SPANISH   STUDENT  ;   A  Play  in  Three  Acts. 
BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  and  OTHER  POEMS. 
EVANGELINE;   a  Tale  of  Acadie. 
THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 
THE  WAIF.     A  Collection  of  Poems.     Edited  by  Longfellow. 
THE  ESTRAY.    A  Collection  of  Poems.    Edited  by  LoiigfeUow. 

MR.  Longfellow's  prose  works. 

Hyperion.     A   Romance.     In    one   volume,    16mo, 

price  Sl.uO. 

Outre-Mer.     a  Pilgrimage  Beyond  the  Sea.    In  one 

volume,  IGmo,  price  gLOO. 

Kavanagh.    a  Tale.     Lately  published.     In  one  vol. 

16mo,  price  75  cents. 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE'S  WRITINGS. 
TwicE-ToLD  Tales.     A  New  Edition.     In  two  vols. 

16mu,  Willi  Portrait,  price  $1.50. 

The  Scarlet  Letter.     A  Romance.      In  one  vol. 

16mn,  prico  75  cents. 

The  IIduse  of  the  Seven  Gables.     In  one  volume, 

16miu,  price  $1  00. 

True    Siories  from  History  and  Biography.     In 

one  vuluiiK',  l6mo,  with  fine  Engravings,  price  75  cents. 


~V 


2  A  LIST  OF  BOOKS  RECENTLY  PUBLISHED 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER'S  WRITINGS. 
Old  Portraits  and  Modern  Sketches.    In  one  vol. 

16mo.    Just  published,  price  75  cenU. 

Margaret  Smith's  Journal.     In  one  volume,  16mo, 

price  75  cents  clotti,  50  cents  in  paper. 

Songs  of  Labor  and  Other  Poems.    In  one  volume, 

16mo,  price  50  cents. 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES'S  WRITINGS. 

Poems.     In  one  volume,   16mo.     New  Edition,  en- 
larged, with  fine  Portrait.    Price  $1.00. 

AsTRiEA,   THE    BALANCE    OF    IlLDSIONS.        Id    ODe    Vol. 
16ino,  price  25  eenta. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON'S  WRITINGS. 
Poems.     A  New  Edition,  enlarged,  with  Portrait.     In 

two  volumes,  16ino,  price  $1.50. 

The  Princess.     A  Medley.     In  one  volume,  16mo, 

price  50  ceDt«. 

In  Memoriam.     In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 

THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY'S  WRITINGS. 
Confessions  of  an  English  Opidm-Eater  and  Sus- 

piRiA  Db  Profcndis.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 

Biographical  Essays.     In  one  volume,  16mo,  price 

75  cents. 

Miscellaneous  Essays.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price 

.    75  cents. 

The  CiESARs.     In  one  volume,  I6mo,  price  75  cents. 

GRACE  GREENWOOD'S  WRITINGS. 
Greenwood  Leaves.      A  Collection  of  Stories  and 

Letters.     In  one  volume,  12mo.    New  Edition,  price  $1  25. 

Poems.     In   one  volume,   16mo,   with   fine    Portrait. 

Price  75  cents. 

History  of  My  Pets.     A  Book  for  Children.     With 

fine  Engravings.     Price  50  cents. 


BYTICKNOR,  REED,  AND  FIELDS. 


EDWIN  P.  WHIPPLE'S  WRITINGS. 
Essays  and  Reviews.     A  New  and  Revised  edition. 

In  two  volumes,  16mo,  price  $2.00. 

Lectures  on  Subjects  connected  with  Literature 

AND  Life.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  63  cents. 

Washington  and  the  Revolution.     In  one  volume, 

16mo,  price  20  cenU. 

HENRY  GILES'S  WRITINGS. 
Lectures,  Essays,  and  Miscellaneous  Writings. 

Two  volumes,  16mo,  price  $1.50. 

Christian  Thought  on  Life.   In  Twelve  Discourses. 

Id  one  volume,  16mo,  price  73  cents. 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL'S  WRITINGS. 
Poems,  Narrative  and  Lyrical.     A  New  Edition, 

Enlarged.     In  one  volume,  16roo,  price  75  cents. 

Posthumous    Poems.      In  one  volume,   16mo,  price 

50  cents. 

Minstrelsy,  Ancient  and  Modern.      In  two  vols. 

16mo,  price  $1.50. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL'S  WRITINGS. 

Complete    Poetical   Works.      Revised,   with   Ad- 
ditions.   In  two  volumes,  16mo,  piice  $1.50. 

The  Biglow  Papers.     In  one  vol.  16mo,  50  cents. 


MISCEIiliAlVEOUS. 

CHARLES    SPRAGUE.      Poetical    and     Prose 

Writings.     With  fine  Portrait.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 

JOHN  G.  SAXE.    Humorous  and  Satirical  Poems. 

In  one  volume,  I6mo,  price  50  cents. 

ROBERT     BROWNING.       Complete     Poetical 

Works.    In  two  volumes,  16mo,  price  $2.00. 

BARRY  CORNWALL.    English  Songs  and  other 

Small  Poems.     Enlarged  Edition.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  $1.00. 

RICHARD   MONCKTON    MILNES.      Poems  of 

Many  Years.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 


4        BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  TICKNOR,  REED,  AND  FIELDS. 

GOETHE'S  WILHELM  MEISTER.   Translated  by 

Cablyle.    In  two  volumes,  IGmo,  price  $'2.50. 

GOETHE'S  FAUST.    Translated  by  Hayward.    In 

one  volume,  16mo.     Now  Edition,  price  75  cents. 

CHARLES  SUMNER.     Orations  and  Speeches. 

In  two  volumes,  IGiiio,  price  $2.50. 

GEORGE  S.  HILLARD.   The  Dangers  and  Duties 

OF  THE  Meiicantile  PROFESSION.    In  One  volume,  l6mo,  price  25  cents. 

HORACE  MANN.    A  Few  Thoughts  for  a  Young 

Man.     lu  one  volume,  IGmo,  prico  25  cents. 

HENRY  T.  TUCKERMAN.     Poems.     In  one  vol- 

tune,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 

PHILLIP  JAMES  BAILEY.     The  Angel  World 

AND  Other  Poems.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  50  cents. 

F.  W.  P.  GREENWOOD.      Sermons   of   Consola- 

TioR.     In  one  volume,  IGmo,  price  $1.00. 

MEMORY  AND  HOPE.     A  Book  of  Poems,  re- 

FERRiNO  TO  Chilohooo.    In  odo  volumo,  8vo,  puce  $2.00. 

REJECTED  ADDRESSES.    By  Horace  and  James 

Smith.     Iu  one  volume,  IGmo,  price  50  cents. 

WARRENIANA.     By  the  Authors  of  Rejected  Ad- 

dresses.    In  one  volume,  IGmo,  price  75  cents. 

ALDERBROOK.    By  Fanny  Forester.    In  two  vols. 

12mo,  price  $1.75. 

THE  BOSTON  BOOK.     Being  Specimens  of  Me- 

TBOFOLiTAN  LiTEBATUHE.    In  ono  Volume,  I2nio,  price  $1.25. 

HEROINES  OF    THE   MISSIONARY    ENTER- 

PRISE.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 

ANGEL-VOICES  ;  or  Words  of  Counsel  for  Over- 

COMING  THE  WoKLD.    In  One  volume,  18mo,  price  3&  cunts. 

THE  CONSTITUTION  OF   MAN.      By  George 

Combe.    27lh  Edition.    In  one  volume,  12mo,  price  75  cunts. 

MEMOIR  OF  THE  BUCKMINSTERS,   F.^ther 

AMD  Son.    By  Mrs.  Lbb.    Id  one  volume,  12mo. 

BACH     OP    THE    ABOVE    POEMS    AND    PKOSB  WRITINGS,    MAY   BB  BAD   IN 
VARIOUS   STYLES  OF  HANDSOME  BINDING. 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/englislisongsotlieOOcorniala 


^  m0 


ENGLISH    SONGS, 


OTHER  SMALL  POEMS. 


BY 


BAREY    CORXWALL. 


A    NEW   AND    ENLARGED    EDITION. 


BOSTON: 

TICK  NOR,    REED,    AND    FIELDS, 

M  DCCC  LI. 


Cambridge: 

mbtcalp    and    company, 

printers  to  the  university. 


The  American  publishers  of  Mr.  Procter's 
Poems  have  taken  the  liberty  to  retain  in  this 
edition  the  forty  Songs  which  the  author  has 
omitted  in  the  latest  English  copy,  counting 
them,  as  he  says,  of  an  "  inferior  quality." 
Among  them  were  so  many  pieces  which  had 
long  ago  become  favorites  in  this  country,  it 
was  thought  desirable  to  include  them  all  in 
this  new  collection,  the  most  complete  one  yet 
published.  The  present  edition  contains  sev- 
enty new  Poems  in  rhyme,  and  a  considerable 
quantity  of  Dramatic  Verse  not  before  printed. 

Boston,  May,  1851. 


"Bakry  Cornwall,  with  tlic  exception  of  Coleridge,  is  the 
most  genuine  poet  of  love  who  has,  for  a  long  period,  appeared 
among  us.  There  is  an  intense  and  passionate  beauty,  a  depth 
of  aifection,  in  his  little  dramatic  poems,  which  appear  even  in 
the  affectionate  triflings  of  his  gentle  characters.  He  illustrates 
that  holiest  of  human  emotions,  which,  while  it  will  twine  itself 
with  the  frailest  twig,  or  dally  with  the  most  evanescent  shadow 
of  creation,  wasting  its  excess  of  kindliness  on  all  around  it,  is  yet 
able  to  '  look  on  tempests  and  be  never  shaken.'  Love  is  gently 
omnipotent  in  his  poems ;  accident  and  death  itself  are  but  pass- 
ing clouds,  which  scarcely  vex  and  which  cannot  harm  it.  The 
lover  seems  to  breathe  out  his  life  in  the  arms  of  his  mistress, 
as  calmly  as  the  infant  sinks  into  its  softest  slumber.  The  fair 
blossoms  of  his  genius,  though  light  and  trembling  at  the  breeze, 
spring  from  a  wide,  and  deep,  and  robust  stock,  which  will  sus- 
tain far  taller  branches  without  being  exhausted." 


I  N  T  R  0  D  U  C  T  I  0  x\ 


TO    THE    FIRST    EDITION. 


England  is  singularly  barren  of  Song-writers.  There 
is  no  English  writer  of  any  rank,  in  my  recollection,  whose 
songs  form  the  distinguishing  feature  of  his  poetry.  The 
little  lyrics  which  are  scattered,  like  stars,  over  the  surface 
of  our  old  dramas,  are  sometimes  minute,  trifling,  and  unde- 
fined in  their  object ;  but  they  are  often  eminently  fine,  —  in 
fact,  the  finest  things  of  the  kind  which  our  language  pos- 
sesses. There  is  more  inspiration,  more  air  and  lyrical 
quality  about  them,  than  in  songs  of  ten  times  their  preten- 
sions. And  this,  perhaps,  arises  from  the  dramatic  faculty 
of  the  writers ;  who,  being  accustomed,  in  other  things,  to 
shape  their  verse  so  as  to  suit  the  characters  and  different 
purposes  of  the  drama,  naturally  extend  this  care  to  the 
fashion  of  the  songs  themselves.  In  cases  where  a  writer 
speaks  in  his  own  person,  he  expends  all  his  egotism  upon 
his  lyrics  ;  and  requires  that  a  critic  should  be  near  to  curtail 
his  misdeeds.  When  he  writes  as  a  dramatist,  he  is,  or 
ought  to  be,  the  critic  himself.  He  is  not,  so  to  speak,  at  all 
implicated  in  what  is  going  forward  in  the  poem ;  but  deals 


VI  INTRODUCTION. 

out  the  dialogue,  like  an  indifferent  by-stander,  seeking  only 
to  adjust  it  to  the  necessities  of  the  actors.  He  is  above  the 
struggle  and  turmoil  of  the  battle  below,  and 

'•Sees,  as  from  a  tower,  the  end  of  all." 

It  is,  in  fact,  this  power  of  forgetting  himself,  and  of  imagin- 
ing and  fashioning  characters  different  from  his  own,  which 
constitutes  the  dramatic  quality.  A  man  who  can  set  aside 
his  own  idiosyncrasy  is  half  a  dramatist. 

It  may  be  thought  paradoxical  to  assert  that  the  songs 
which  occur  in  dramas  are  more  natural  than  those  which 
proceed  from  the  author  in  person  :  yet  such  is  generally  the 
case.     If,  indeed,  a  poet  wrote  purely  and  seasonably  only, 

—  that  is  to  say,  if  his  poetry  sprung  always  from  the  pas- 
sion or  humor  of  the  moment, —  the  fact  might  be  otherwise. 
But  it  may  easily  be  seen,  that  many  rhymes  are  produced 
out  of  season ;  and  are  often  nothing  more  than  the  result 
of  ingenuity  taxed  to  the  uttermost ;  or  otherwise,  are  simply 
the  indiscretions  of  "gentleman  at  ease,"  who  have  nothing, 
or  nothing  better,  to  do.  Now  Poetry  is  not  to  be  thus  con- 
strained ;  nor  is  it  ever  the  offspring  of  ennui  or  languor.  It 
demands  not  only  the  "  faculty  divine,"  (so  called,)  but  also, 
that  it  should  be  left  to  its  own  impulses.  The  intellectual 
faculties  are  in  no  one  always  in  a  state  of  tension,  or  capa- 
ble of  projecting  those  thoughts  which,  in  happier  moments, 
are  cast  forth  with  perfect  ease,  —  and  which,  when  thrown 
out  by  the  Imagination  or  the  Fancy,  constitute  the  charm, 
and  indeed  form  the  essence,  of  poetry. 

Much  of  what  I  have  said  applies  to  verse  in  general ;  but 
it  applies  more  especially  to  songs  and  small  pieces  of  verse, 

—  those  nugtE  canor(B,  —  which,  at  the  time  that  they  plead 
their  "want  of  pretension,"  take  due  care,  but  too  often,  to 
justify  their  professed  defects.     When  a  writer  commences  a 


IMKODtJCTION.  Vll 

poem  ol'  serious  length,  he  throws  all  his  strength  into  it : 
he  selects  the  happiest  hour ;  he  condenses,  and  amends,  and 
rejects;  and,  in  short,  does  his  best  to  produce  something 
good.  But  in  a  song,  or  "  a  trifle  in  verse,"  he  feels  no  re- 
sponsibility. He  professes  nothing,  and,  unfortunately,  does 
little  more. 

It  may  be  said  that  a  song  is  necessarily  a  trifling  matter ; 
but,  if  good,  it  is  a  Irifie,  of  at  least  a  different  sort.  And 
to  make  even  a  trifle  perfect  or  agreeable,  should  satisfy  a 
moderate  ambition.  It  demands  some  talent  Where  po- 
etry is  concerned,  it  requires  even  more  :  for  it  requires  that 
this  talent  should  be  of  a  peculiar  order,  and  should  be  ex- 
erted at  a  happy  time.  1  am  by  no  means  forward  to 
imagine  that  these  two  requisites  have  at  any  time  concurred 
in  my  case.  But  I  hope  that  I  have,  in  a  few  instances,  so 
far  succeeded  as  to  allure  other  writers,  (having  more  lei- 
sure than  I  possess,)  to  direct  their  powers  to  this  species  of 
verse.  It  has  been  too  much  disdained.  Poets  have  in 
general  preferred  exhibiting  their  tediousness  in  long  com- 
positions, and  have  neglected  the  song.  But  the  brevity, 
which  is  the  "  soul  "  of  song,  as  well  as  of  wit,  is  not  neces- 
sarily allied  to  insignificance.  The  battle-songs  of  Mr. 
Campbell  are  a  triumphant  proof  of  the  contrary.  So  also 
are  many  of  the  songs  and  ballads  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Mr. 
Moore,  Mr.  Lockhart,  Mr.  Hogg,  my  friend  Allan  Cunning- 
ham, and,  finally,  the  charming  songs  of  Burns.  To  my 
thinking,  the  sentiment  in  some  of  Burns's  songs  is  as  fine 
and  as  true  as  any  thing  in  Shakspeare  himself.  I  do  not 
.speak  of  his  imagination,  or  of  his  general  power,  (both 
which  in  the  Scottish  poet  are  immeasurably  inferior,)  but 
of  the  mere  sentiment  or  feeling,  —  that  fine  natural  elo- 
quence which  a  warm  heart  taujiht  him,  and  which  he 
poured  out  so  profusely  in  song.     There  is  an  earnestness 


Vm  INTRODUCTION. 

and  directness  of  purpose  in  Burns,  which,  if  attended  to, 
would,  I  think,  strengthen  the  poetry  of  the  present  day. 
As  an  instance  of  his  going  at  once  to  the  sentiment,  without 
any  parade  of  words,  or  preliminary  flourish,  one  may  refer 
to  the  lilies,  — 

"Although  thou  maun  never  be  mine, 

Although  even  hope  is  denied, 
'T  is  sweeter  for  thee  despairing, 

Than  aught  in  the  world  beside,  —  Jessy  f" 

in  which  the  sentiment  is  exquisitely  tender  and  beautiful. 
We  do  not,  I  think,  deal  thus  fairly  with  our  thoughts  at 
present.  We  accumulate  multitudes  of  words  around  them  ; 
as  though  the  idea  were  unable  to  support  itself.  Our  ver- 
biage is  the  Corinthian  capital,  which  has  succeeded  the  finer 
Ionic.  One  might  almost  suspect  that  "  the  Schoolmaster," 
who  is  everywhere  abroad,  has  generated  rather  a  facility 
of  spreading  common  thoughts,  than  a  power  of  originating 
new  ones.  At  all  events,  the  verbiage  which  I  have  alluded 
to  is  a  manifestation  of  weakness  rather  than  of  strength, 
and  indicates,  (if  one  may  judge  from  analogies,)  a  de- 
clension, at  least  as  much  as  a  refinement,  in  taste.  Feeling 
this,  —  and  feeling  also  that  I  myself  am  far  from  exempted 
from  this  defect,  —  I  have  occasionally  introduced  some 
poems  in  this  volume,  which  are  bald  enough  in  expression  ; 
and  which,  in  fact,  have  little  beyond  the  mere  sentiment 
to  recommend  them.  But  this  ought  to  be  sufficient.  If 
it  be  not  sufficient  in  my  case,  (for  it  is  so,  frequently,  in 
Mr.  Wordsworth's  poems,)  I  can  plead  nothing  beyond  a 
good  intention ;  and  must  throw  myself  on  the  charity  of 
the  reader. 

It  cannot  be  very  flattering  to  our  self-love,  to  observe, 
that  all  the  song-writers,  except  Mr.  Moore,  (and,  I  ought 
to  have  added,  Dibdin,)  are  Scottish  poets.     In  our  songs, 


INTRODUCTION.  IX 

however,  we  differ  —  not  only  in  merit,  but  frequently  also 
in  character  —  from  the  songs  which  have  proceeded  from 
Scotland.  The  latter  approach  more  nearly  to  the  ballad, 
which  comprises  a  slory.  A  song  —  (adopting  the  English 
model  as  the  fit  one)  —  may  be  considered  as  the  expression 
of  a  senlirnent,  varying  according  to  the  humor  of  the  poet. 
It  should  be  fitted  for  music;  and,  in  fact,  should  become 
belter  for  the  accompaniment  of  music ;  otherwise  it  can 
scarcely  be  deemed,  essentially,  a  song. 

The  character  of  Poetry  has  always  fluctuated  with  the 
times;  and  Songs,  as  well  as  the  epic  poem  and  the  diama, 
have  partaken  of  each  successive  change.  In  early  ages, 
they  were  spontaneous  and  necessarily  rude  productions:  in 
refined  times  they  became  artificial.  Neither  of  these  two 
periods  are,  I  apprehend,  the  most  favorable  to  poetry.  The 
mind  of  the  poet  requires  to  be  somewhat  cultivated  and  en- 
larged by  reading  ;  but  it  should  not  be  perplexed  by  too 
many  critical  distinctions,  nor  weakened  by  excessive  refine- 
ment. The  age  of  poetry  precedes  that  of  criticism ;  as  the 
act  precedes  the  law,  which  is  made  to  control  it.  It  is  then, 
— in  the  youth  and  first  manhood  of  literature,  —  that  all 
imaginative  writings  are  the  best.  If  they  exhibit  not  the 
fastidiousness  and  superfluous  accuracy  of  later  ages,  (which, 
in  many  cases,  is  little  better  than  the  "  ridiculous  excess,") 
they  make  amends  for  such  deficiencies  by  the  freshness  and 
beauty,  the  originality  and  undaunted  vigor,  of  their  images. 
In  effect,  it  is  a  species  of  paradox  in  criticism,  to  insist  upon 
minute  and  mathematical  niceties,  in  things  which  deal  mainly 
with  the  passions. 

In  our  country,  (and  I  believe  in  most  others,)  the  ballad 
preceded  the  song.  The  achievements  of  the  warrior  were 
reflected  in  the  magnifying  verse  of  the  minstrel.  There 
scarcely  ever  was  an  age  so  dark,  or  a  people  so  barbarous. 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

as  not  to  have  possessed  bards  who  sang  the  praises  of  their 
heroes.  These  two  seem,  in  fact,  to  have  been  almost  neces- 
sary to  each  other ;  and  to  have  gone,  hand  in  hand,  tog-ether, 
illustrating  the  soul  and  sinews  of  the  times.  The  soldier 
would  have  lacked  one  strong  incentive,  had  a  minstrel  been 
found  wanting  to  shout  forth  his  deeds;  and,  without  a  hero, 
the  minstrel  would  have  had  little  or  no  subject  for  his  song. 
For  all  the  subtleties  of  thought,  which  writers  in  more  ad- 
vanced ages  pour  out  so  profusely,  are  beyond  the  range  of 
an  uneducated  poet.  He  knows,  and  sings  only,  what  he 
sees  and  hears.  The  sheep  and  their  pastures,  the  strug- 
gles and  bloody  feuds  of  his  province,  form  the  staple  of  his 
verse.  His  heroes  are  renowned,  like  the  racer,  for  blood, 
and  bone,  and  sinew.  All  else  is  beyond  his  limit,  —  beyond 
his  power.  It  is  the  educated  poet  only  who  subdues  abstract 
ideas  to  the  purposes  of  his  verse,  and  lets  loose  his  Imagina- 
tion into  daring  and  subtle  speculations.  There  is  no  one, 
with  whose  works  I  am  acquainted,  who  falsifies  this  posi- 
tion ;  saving  perhaps  Shakspeare,  —  who  is  an  exception  to 
all  things ! 

The  ballad-writers  of  our  country  were  men  of  great  tal- 
ent ;  but  they  did  not  go  beyond  their  age.  They  roared  out 
Bacchanalian  songs,  over  sack  and  the  "  blood-red  wine  "  ; 
they  bruited  about  the  deeds  of  their  favorite  heroes,  till  the 
heroism  of  the  verse  bore  the  same  proportion  to  the  original 
actions  that  vapor  does  to  water.  In  return  for  this,  —  they 
were  paid  —  in  bed  and  board  ;  in  wine,  and  mead,  and  broad- 
cloth ;  and  in  huge  quantities  of  praise  I  Occasionally,  in- 
deed, when  some  rich  and  puissant  baron  was  transformed 
into  a  god,  or  his  dame  or  daughter  was  exhibited  in  flat- 
tering comparison  with  the  foam-born. Venus,  by  the  false 
glamour  of  poetry,  the  minstrel  became  master  of  a  jewel 
or  an  ounce  of  gold.     Subsequently  to  all  this,  our  ballad- 


INTRODUCTION.  XI 

makers  and  players  wandered  about  to  fairs  and  revels.  Pri- 
vate beneficence  was  often  found  wanting;  (perhaps  it  was 
sometimes  taxed  too  heavily;)  and  the  men  who  had  wares 
for  all  tastes,  wisely  left  the  individual  for  the  multitude. 
And  hence  began  the  patronage  of  "  the  Public." 

The  competition  for  public  favor,  however,  was  not  long 
confined  to  professed  minstrels.  The  arts  of  reading  and 
writing  opened  a  new  prospect  of  ambition  to  our  noble  an- 
cestors. The  spirit  of  chivalry,  which  had  previously  mani- 
fested itself  in  hard  blows  alone,  sought  opportunities  for 
exhibiting  its  gentler  qualities  in  song.  Love,  Devotion, 
Constancy,  Generosity,  and  the  various  other  Virtues,  (which 
do  not  consist  merely  in  the  muscles,  or  spring  from  the  sheer 
insensibility  of  the  animal  man,)  found  historians.  Surrey, 
Wyatt,  Sidney,  Raleigh,  and  a  host  of  others,  form  part  of 
this  early  class  of  poets.  Their  style  and  gallantry  (with 
such  small  gradual  change  as  is  always  occurring  in  litera- 
ture) remained  till  the  death  of  Charles  the  First.  Upon 
that  occasion  the  belles  lettres,  as  well  as  monarchy,  were 
overturned  for  a  time  ;  but  returned,  —  the  former  in  a  new 
guise  and  thoroughly  degenerated,  —  with  the  courtiers  of 
his  son.  From  that  period,  till  the  time  of  Thomson  and 
Collins,  (for  I  refer  Milton  to  the  earlier  period,)  all  our 
songs,  and  most  of  our  poems,  were  evidently  written  by  the 
celebrated  "  Lady  of  Quality."  *  I  recollect  scarcely  a  sin- 
gle Ejiglish  song  of  high  character,  which  has  been  ten  years 
before  the  public.     And  yet.  Burns  and  other  Scottish  poets 

*  Dryden,  and  Pope,  and  a  few  others,  fonn  of  course  illuslrious  exceplions 
to  this  censure. 

♦  *  *  Since  the  foregoing  Introduction  was  written.  I  have 
submitted  it  to  the  perusal  of  a  friend,  who^e  opinion  I  respect ;  and  he  tells 
me  that  I  have  not  done  justice  to  the  song-writers  who  have  flourished  since 
the  Resioralion.  Perhaps  I  have  relied  too  much  on  my  old  impressions,  in- 
stead of  examinins  the  facts  a?aia. 


XU  INTRODUCTION. 

have,  for  almost  half  a  century,  been  scattering  among  us 
the  seeds  of  a  better  taste.  Let  us  hope,  that,  in  an  agreea- 
ble (although  not  very  important)  department  of  literature,  we 
are  destined  to  some  improvement. 

For  the  following  poems,  (about  one  third  of  which  may  be 
called  Songs,)  I  do  not  insist  very  strongly  on  the  admiration 
of  the  reader.  They  are  intended  somewhat  in  the  shape  of 
a  farewell  offering,  from  a  person  who  has  met  with  much 
kindness  from  the  Public,  and  is  neither  able  —  nor  inclined 
—  to  forget  it. 


CONTENTS. 


PAET    THE    FIRST. 

PAGE 

The  Sea 1 

The  Home  of  the  Absentee 3 

Indian  Love 4 

King  Death 5 

Past  Times 6 

A  Serenade 7 

To  my  Lyre 8 

The  Onset :  —  A  Battle  Song 9 

Song  for  Twilight 10 

The  Hunter's  Song 1 1 

The  Recall            12 

The  Exile's  Farewell 13 

On  a  Mother  and  Child  sleeping 14 

The  Sea-King .  15 

The  Wild  Cherry-Tree 16 

The  Common  Lot 17 

The  Little  Voice 18 

A  Bacchanalian  Song 19 

Dark-eyed  Beauty  of  the  South             20 

The  Poet's  Song  to  his  Wife 21 

She  was  not  fair  nor  full  of  Grace 22 

A  Song  for  the  Seasons             23 

The  Quadroon 24 

The  Bloodhound 25 


XIV  CONTENTS. 

PAOB 

Is  my  Lover  on  the  Sea  ? 26 

The  Mistletoe 27 

Constancy 28 

The  Nights 29 

To  a  Nightingale,  at  Mid-day 30 

The  Stormy  Petrel 31 

Earth  and  Air 32 

Song  of  the  Soldier  to  his  Sword 33 

The  Happy  Hours 34 

Hurrah  for  Merry  England 35 

Why  doth  the  Bottle  stand  ? 36 

Count  Balthazar 37 

When  Friends  look  dark  and  cold 39 

The  Night  is  closing  round,  Mother           ....  40 

Peace!     What  do  Tears  avail ? 41 

The  Wood-Thrush 42 

Midnight  Rhymes         . 43 

A  Love  Song 44 

The  Stranger 45 

Song  in  Praise  of  Spring 46 

The  Night  before  the  Bridal 47 

A  deep  and  a  mighty  Shadow 48 

Belshazzar 49 

The  Heart-Broken .50 

A  Phantasy 51 

Life 52 


PART    THE    SECOND. 

The  Return  of  the  Admiral 55 

Home 58 

The  Vintage-Song .        .        .59 

The  Evening  Star 60 

The  Weaver's  Song 61 

Sleep  on 62 


CONTENTS.  XV 

PAGE 

Love  and  Mirth 63 

Song  over  a  Child 64 

The  Landsman's  Song 65 

Perdita 66 

Love  the  Poet,  pretty  One 67 

Lucy 68 

The  Wooing  Song 69 

Hermione 70 

The  Owl 71 

Marian 72 

The  Humber  Ferry 73 

A  Repose 74 

The  Lake  has  burst 75 

Sing,  Maiden,  sing ! 76 

Maureen 77 

Unequal  Love 78 

Wine 79 

Sing !     Who  mingles  with  my  Lays  ?         ....  80 

I  love  my  Love,  because  he  loves  me 81 

Talk  not  to  me  of  Love     .......  82 

Miriam 83 

Babylon 85 

Her  large,  dark,  luminous  Eyes  are  on  me    .         .         .         .86 

The  Remonstrance 87 

Kill  the  Love  that  winds  around  thee 88 

What  say  the  Clouds  on  the  Hill  and  Plain  ?     .         .         .  89 

A  Dilemma 90 

The  Beggar's  Song             91 

To  Sophie 92 

Build  up  a  Column  to  Bolivar 93 

The  Farewell  of  the  Soldier 94 

The  Nightshade 95 

True  Love 96 

Song  of  the  Outcast 97 

To  a  Flower 98 

Forbidden  Love 99 


XVI  CONTEXTS. 

PAOB 

A  Bridal  Dirge  100 

The  Convict's  Farewell  101 

The  Rhine 105 

Sweet  Friend,  where  sleeps  thy  Song  ?     .        .        .        .  106 

The  Hirias  Horn 107 

Come  !    Let  us  go  to  the  Land 108 

The  Leveller 109 

The  Secret  of  Singing 110 

PART    THE    THIRD. 

The  Fight  of  Ravenna 113 

The  Fire-FIy 122 

The  Blood  Horse 123 

Hidden  Thoughts 124 

An  Epistle  to  Charles  Lamb 125 

Sit  down,  sad  Soul 1 29 

A  Chamber  Scene 130 

Courage 131 

The  Fisherman  132 

The  Pauper's  Jubilee 133 

The  Falcon 136 

The  Past 137 

Song  of  Wood-Nymphs 1 39 

The  Song  of  a  Felon's  Wife 140 

To  the  Singer  Pasta 141 

Fuller's  Bird  143 

The  Sea,  —  in  Calm 144 

A  Hymn  of  Evil  Spirits 145 

Softly  woo  away  her  Breath 146 

A  Thought  on  a  Rivulet 147 

I  loved  her  when  she  looked  from  me  .        .        .        .148 

A  Storm 149 

Parents' Love 151 

The  Vain  Regret 152 


CONTENTS.  XVII 

PAGE 

The  Violet 153 

Beauty 1.54 

Sybilla 155 

A  Midsummer  Fancy 156 

Past  and  Present 157 

Wilt  thou  go  ? 158 

On  some  Human  Bones,  found  on  a  Headland  in  the  Bay  of 

Panama            159 

An  Irish  Song .  160 

'T  is  better  we  laugh  than  weep 161 

A  Drinking  Song 162 

River  of  the  Morn 1 6.3 

Song  sliould  breathe 1 64 

Song  for  our  Father-land 165 

Thou  hast  Love  within  thine  Eyes            .         .         .         .  166 

To  the  Snow-drop 167 

Wilt  thou  leave  me  ? 168 

In  Commemoration  of  Haydn 169 

On  tlie  Portrait  of  a  Child 1 70 

Inscriptions.  —  More  Grcecum 171 

Napoleon 173 

Golden-tressed  Adelaide 174 

Love  flying 175 

A  Dreamer's  Song •  .  176 

A  Poet's  Thought 177 

To  a  Lady  attiring  herself 177 

Wilt  thou  remember  me  ? 178 

I  go,  and  she  doth  miss  me  not  ' 178 

A  Parting  Song 179 

I  die  for  thy  sweet  Love 179 

What  Use  is  all  the  Love  I  bear  thee  ?     .        .        .        .  l  SO 

A  Farewell 1 80 

She  sate  by  the  River  Springs 181 

A  Reproach 182 

A  Conceit 182 

A  Night  Song 183 

b 


XVUl  CONTENTS. 

PAOK 

To  Adelaide  184 

A  Prayer  in  Sickness 185 

To  a  Voyager 186 

His  Love  is  hidden 186 

Song.  —  From  a  Play 187 

Sister,  I  cannot  read  to-day 187 

Sea-shore  Stanzas  1 88 

On  the  Death  of  a  Child 189 

To  a  Poetess  1 90 

A  Petition  to  Time 191 

A  Question  and  Reply 191 

Wishes 192 

An  Epitaph 192 


ADDITIONAL    SONGS. 

A  Song  for  the  New  Year 195 

London            197 

My  old  Arm-Chair      .        .        ." 199 

II  Pensoroso  and  L'Allegro 202 

Within  and  Without 204 

A  Panegyric  on  Ale 206 

The  Pearl- Wearer 210 

A  Farewell  to  Home 212 

The  Rake's  Progress 214 

Thirteen  Years  ago 217 

A  Dirge 220 

The  Fate  of  the  Oak 221 

The  History  of  a  Life 222 

On  a  Stranger's  Grave  near  Venice          ....  223 

Music            223 

To  the  Eyes  of  a  Young  Actress 226 

An  Invocation  to  Music 227 

To  a  Friend  in  Autumn 228 


CONTENTS.  XIX 

PAOB 

Lowly  Pleasures 229 

To  our  Neighbor's  Health 230 

To  a  Poet  abandoning  his  Art 232 

Ignorance  is  Bliss 233 

Mens  Divinior 234 

Henri  Quatre 235 

A  Catalogue  of  Common-places 236 

An  Extravaganza             237 

Love  and  Light 237 

The  Twin-Bom 238 

A  Common  Thought 239 

A  Phantasy 240 

On  a  Lady  slandered •  242 

To  a  Sleeper            243 

A  Dirge 244 

A  Lament 245 

Stanzas 246 

Song,  after  Labor 247 

The  Sailor's  Lament  for  the  Sea 248 

The  Poet  and  the  Fisher 249 

To  D.  Maclise,  K.  A 250 

Song 252 

For  Music 252 

Song 253 

A  Love  Song 253 

Song 254 

Song 255 

A  Song  on  an  Old  Subject 256 

Song 257 

Question  and  Reply 257 

To  the  South  Wind            259 

Song 260 

The  Poor-House 261 

Pastoral 264 

The  Pale  Queen 264 

The  Stars 266 


XX  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  last  Stave 267 

The  Rising  of  the  North 268 

The  Sea  Fight 272 

The  Wreck 274 

The  Time  of  Charlemagne 276 

The  Approach  of  Winter 278 

A  Christmas  Reminiscence         ......  280 

A  Farewell  to  December 281 

The  Modem  Cj-raon            284 

The  Poor  Scholar's  Song 289 

Rind  and  Fruit 290 

The  Prophet 291 

Sit  near !     Sit  near ! 293 

The  Mother's  last  Song 294 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

PART    THE    FIRST. 

Introduction  to  a  Drama  (1821) 297 

The  Valley  of  Ladies 302 

An  Utilitarian 303 

The  Uses  of  Courage 303 

Life  everywhere 304 

Fame  the  Offspring  of  Fortune 304 

Love  independent  of  Reason 303 

A  Jester ;  from  the  antique 305 

A  Case  of  Witchcraft 307 

Mesalliance  307 

Resolution 308 

Ascending  Visions  308 

The  New  Year 309 

Life  and  Death  ........  309 

Autumn 310 


CONTENTS.  XXI 

PAGE 

The  Sorrow  of  an  Heir 310 

Unborn  Flowers 311 

A  Mother  pleads  to  see  her  Children 311 

A  Superstition 312 

A  Page  untranslatable 314 

Twilight 314 

Exiles 314 

Friends  in  Death 316 

ANewAlcestis  316 

Old  Romance 319 

An  Agrarian  Law 320 

Aggrandizement  by  the  Passions 321 

Advice  on  Marriage  321 

Death  in  Youth 322 

Hopefulness  of  Lore  322 

Good  in  every  Heart 322 

A  Lover's  Memory 323 

Polyphemus 323 

Parents'  Love :  Value  of  Reproof 324 

Goodness  comes  without  Parade 324 

Evening  Music  324 

Fancy  thrives  in  Darkness 326 

Children 326 

Pride  of  Birth 327 

A  Discovery.    Confidential  Talk 327 

Constancy  in  Crime 330 

Popular  Commotions 331 

Battles .331 

Animal  Love 332 

"Wisdom,  a  Problem 333 

Comfort  in  Nature       ........  334 

Mute  Confession 334 

A  Lily 334 

Uninspired  Music  335 

Fellowship 335 

The  Rise  of  a  Favorite  336 

6* 


XXU  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Fate  of  the  Daring 337 

A  Father's  Anger •        .  337 

Good  never  ceases 338 

The  Limit  of  a  Hero 338 

A  Prophet 339 

A  Sceptic  in  Happiness 340 

False  Worship 340 

The  Test  of  Love 341 

A  Truism 341 

Silence 342 

A  Conqueror's  Account  of  Himself 342 

Parish  Law-givers 343 

Kindness  is  Power 344 

Soldier's  Love 344 

A  Poet's  Reply 345 


PART    THE    SECOND. 

A  Murderer  reproaches  his  Employer;  —  the  Retort        .  349 

A  Man  without  Repentance 351 

A  Jew's  Use  for  Riches 352 

Consolation  in  Poverty 353 

The  same  subject 353 

The  Exultation  of  an  Heir 354 

Love 354 

Revenge 355 

A  Blush 356 

A  Butt 356 

Specimen  of  Courtiers 356 

Account  of  a  Boaster 357 

A  Bridal  Couple 358 

A  Mature  Taste 358 

The  Schoolmaster  abroad 359 

Nothing  perfect 359 

Remonstrance 360 


CONTENTS. 


XXUl 


The  Intellect  strengthened  by  Study   . 

Taste  in  Vice 

A  Eich  Man 

Sadness  avoided  by  the  Wealthy     . 
Loss  of  Strength         .        .        .        . 
Questions  to  one  restored  from  Death 

The  Grave 

Knowledge 

A  Poor  Man 

A  Constant  Soldier 

The  Heathen  Deities   . 

Might  and  Right 

Unions  dangerous 

Death  stationary 

A  Lover's  Likeness 

Another  .... 

Music  .... 

The  Town 

Specimen  of  a  Cavalier 

A  Publican  and  his  Customers 

A  New  Pctruchio 

Death 

Night  Thoughts  . 

Mute  Sorrow  the  most  powerful 

Flowers       .... 

A  Lover's  Irresolution 

Useless  Fear 

A  transient  Thought 

Reproof  to  one  who  has  no  ear 

Grief  fontastical 

Dreams        .... 

Age  double-sighted  . 

Philosophers  human    . 

Kings       .... 

Revenge       .... 

Picture  of  a  Hypochondriac 


PAGE 

360 
360 
361 
361 
361 
362 
362 
363 
363 
364 
364 
36.5 
366 
366 
366 
367 
367 
367 
368 
368 
369 
370 
370 
371 
371 
372 
372 
373 
373 
374 
374 
374 
375 
375 
375 
376 


XXIV  CONTENTS. 

PA6B 

Infirmity  lies  in  the  Mind 376 

An  Ancient  Pile 376 

The  Exaggeration  of  Grief 377 

A  Princess's  Dishonor 377 

A  Desperate  Man 377 

Suitable  Music         .        .        .        .  "      .        .        .        .  378 

A  Tender  Voice 378 

A  Fancy 378 

A  Young  Man's  Opinion  of  Age 379 

A  Sceptic  in  Virtue 379 

Slander  of  Women 380 

No  Love  to  be  despised 381 

A  Lover  of  Sentiment 381 

AProt6g6 382 

The  General  Law .  383 

A  Bold  Man 383 

A  Brother  .        .        • 383 

An  Epitaph 384 

"We  love  one  different  from  ourselves 385 

Satisfaction  in  a  Blow 386 

A  Lady  drowned 386 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  PUBLIC. 

*^*  The  Writer  of  the  following  Poems  has,  for  some  years 
past,  abandoned  verse- writing,  foiP  graver,  and  (to  him)  more 
important  occupations.  He  has,  however,  —  influenced  by  mo- 
tives with  which  he  need  not  trouble  the  reader,  —  allowed  some 
of  the  MSS.  remaining  in  his  portfolio  to  be  printed.  The  time 
is  not  very  favorable  to  productions  of  this  sort;  but  —  "Le 
Printemps  reviendral"  the  days  for  relishing  poetry  can  never 
be  utterly  at  an  end.  We  may  as  well  hope  to  extinguish  the 
Imagination  and  the  Fancy  themselves,  as  to  put  a  final  stop 
to  the  love  which  poetrj'  (their  offspring)  has  so  long  excited. 
When  "the  spring  shall  return,"  the  Author  hopes  that  a  few 
of  tibese  verses  will  find  favor  with  the  public ;  upon  whose  kind- 
ness and  courtesy  he  throws  himself,  as  a  writer  of  verse,  for — 
he  believes  —  the  last  time ! 

It  is  proper  to  state  that  several  of  the  following  Songs,  which 
have  obtained  considerable  popularity,  are  indebted  for  it  mainly, 
if  not  solely,  to  the  music  of  the  Chevalier  Sigishond  Neo- 
komm;  —  a  composer  of  the  very  first  order. 


SONGS,  &c. 


PART    THE    FIRST. 


SONGS. 


PART  THE  FIRST. 


I.— THE  SEA. 

SET  TO   MtJSIC   BY   THB   CHEVALIER  NBDKOMM. 

The  sea  !  the  sea  !  the  open  sea ! 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free  ! 

Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 

It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  regions  round  ; 

It  plays  with  the  clouds  ;  it  mocks  the  skies ; 

Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I  'm  on  the  sea  !  I  'm  on  the  sea  ! 
I  am  where  I  would  ever  be  ; 
With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below. 
And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go  ; 
If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the  deep. 
What  matter  ?  /  shall  ride  and  sleep. 
1 


SONGS. 

I  love,  O,  how  I  love  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide,  . 
When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon, 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune. 
And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 
And  why  the  sou' west  blasts  do  blow. 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore. 
But  I  loved  the  great  sea  more  and  more. 
And  backwards  flew  to  her  billowy  breast. 
Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  its  mother's  nest ; 
And  a  mother  she  was,  and  is,  to  me  ; 
For  I  was  born  on  the  open  sea  ! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  mom, 
In  the  noisy  hour  wlien  I  was  born  ; 
And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  rolled, 
And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold  ; 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 
As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean-child  ! 

I  've  lived  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 
Full  fifty  summers,  a  sailor's  life. 
With  wealth  to  spend  and  a  power  to  range, 
But  never  have  sought  nor  sighed  for  change  ; 
And  Death,  whenever  he  comes  to  me. 
Shall  come  on  the  wild,  unbounded  sea  ! 


SONGS. 


11. -THE  HOME  OF  THE  ABSENTEE. 

The  weed  mourns  on  the  castle  wall, 
The  grass  lies  on  the  chamber  floor, 
And  on  the  hearth,  and  in  the  hall, 
Where  merry  music  danced  of  yore  ! 
And  the  blood-red  wine  no  longer 
Runs, —  (how  it  used  to  run  !) 
And  the  shadows  within,  grown  stronger. 
Look  black  on  the  midday  sun  ! 

All  is  gone ;  save  a  Voice 

That  never  did  yel  rejoice  : 

'  T  is  sweet  and  low ;  V  is  sad  and  lone  ; 

And  it  biddeth  tis  love  the  thing  that  ''sjloicn. 

The  Gardens  feed  no  fruits  nor  flowers. 
But  childless  seem,  and  in  decay  ; 
The  traitor  clock  forsakes  the  hours, 
And  points  to  times,  —  O,  far  away  ! 
And  the  steed  no  longer  neigheth. 

Nor  paws  the  startled  ground  ; 
And  the  dun  hound  no  longer  bayeth  ; 
But  death  is  in  all  around  ! 

All  is  gone ;  save  a  Voice 

That  never  did  yet  rejoice  : 

'  T  is  siceet  and  low  ;  '<  is  sad  and  lone  ; 

And  it  biddeth  us  love  the  thing  that  ''s  flown. 


SONGS. 

The  Lord  of  all  the  lone  domain, 

An  undeserving  master,  flies, 

And  leaves  a  land  where  he  might  reign. 

For  alien  hearts  and  stranger  skies  : 

And  the  peasant  disdains  the  story 

He  loved  to  recount  of  yore  ; 
And  the  Name,  that  was  once  a  glory. 
Is  heard  in  the  land  no  more  ! 

All  is  gone  ;  save  a  Voice 

That  never  did  yet  rejoice  : 

'  T  is  sweet  and  low ;  '<  is  sad  and  lone  ; 

And  it  hiddeth  us  love  the  thing  that  ''sjlown. 


III.  — INDIAN  LOVE. 

Tell  me  not  that  thou  dost  love  me, 
Though  it  thrill  me  with  delight : 

Thou  art,  like  the  stars,  above  me  ; 
I,  the  lowly  earth  at  night. 

Hast  thou  {thou  from  kings  descended) 
Loved  the  Indian  cottage-born  ; 

And  shall  she,  whom  Love  befriended. 
Darken  all  thy  hopeful  mom  ? 

Go,  —  and,  for  thy  fathers'  glory. 
Wed  the  blood  that 's  pure  find  free  : 

'T  is  enough  to  gild  my  story 
That  I  once  was  loved  by  thee  ! 


SONGS. 


IV.— KING  DEATH. 

SET  TO  XUSIO  BT   TH£  CHSVAUSB  HBUKOMM. 

King  Death  was  a  rare  old  fellow ! 

He  sat  where  no  sun  could  shine  ; 
And  he  lifted  his  hand  so  yellow. 

And  poured  out  his  coal-black  wine. 

Hurrah  !  for  the  coal-black  Wine  ! 

There  came  to  him  many  a  Maiden, 
Whose  eyes  had  forgot  to  shine  ; 

And  Widows,  with  grief  o'erladen, 
For  a  draught  of  his  sleepy  wine. 

Hurrah  !  for  the  coal-black  Wine  ! 

The  Scholar  left  all  his  learning ; 

The  Poet  his  fancied  woes ; 
And  the  Beauty  her  bloom  returning, 

Like  life  to  the  fading  rose. 

Hurrah  !  for  the  coal-black  Wine  ! 

All  came  to  the  royal  old  fellow. 

Who  laughed  till  his  eyes  dropped  brine, 
As  he  gave  them  his  hand  so  yellow, 

And  pledged  them  in  Death's  black  wine. 
Hurrah  !  Hurrah  ! 
Hurrah  !  for  the  coal-black  Wine  ! 


SONGS, 


V PAST  TIME& 


Old  Acquaintance,  shall  the  nights 

You  and  I  once  talked  together 
Be  forgot  like  common  things,  — 

Like  some  dreary  night  that  brings 

Naught,  save  foul  weather  ? 

We  were  young,  when  you  and  I 

Talked  of  golden  things  together,  — 
Of  love  and  rhyme,  of  books  and  men  : 
Ah  !  our  hearts  were  buoyant  then 
As  the  wild-goose  feather! 

Twenty  years  have  fled,  we  know, 

Bringing  care  and  changing  weather  ; 
But  hath  th'  heart  no  backward  flights, 
That  we  again  may  see  those  nights, 
And  laugh  together  ? 

Jove's  eagle,  soaring  to  the  sun. 

Renews  the  past  year's  mouldering  feather 
Ah,  why  not  you  and  I,  then,  soar 
From  age  to  youth,  —  and  dream  once  more 

Long  nights  together  ? 


SOXGS. 


.    VI.  — A  SERENADE. 

SET  TO   HCSIC   BT  THE   CHEVALIER    NBUKOMV. 

Awake  !  —  The  starry  midnight  Hour 

Hangs  charmed,  and  pauseth  in  its  flight ; 
In  its  own  sweetness  sleeps  the  flower, 
And  the  doves  lie  hushed  in  deep  delight ! 
Awake  !  Awake  ! 
Look  for th^  my  love^for  Love''s  sweet  sake  ! 

Awake  !  —  Soft  dews  will  soon  arise 

From  daisied  mead,  and  thorny  brake ; 
Then,  Sweet,  uncloud  those  eastern  eyes, 
And  like  the  tender  morning  break  ! 
Awake  !  Awake  ! 
Dawn  forth.,  my  love,  for  Love''s  sweet  sake  ! 

Awake !  —  Within  the  musk-rose  bower 
I  watch,  pale  flower  of  love,  for  thee  : 
Ah,  come,  and  show  the  starry  Hour 

What  wealth  of  love  thou  hid'st  from  me  ! 
Awake  !  Awake  ! 
Show  all  thy  love,  for  Love''s  sweet  sake  ! 


SONGS. 

Awake  !  —  Ne'er  heed,  though  listening  Night 

Steal  music  from  thy  silver  voice  : 
Uncloud  thy  beauty,  rare  and  bright. 
And  bid  the  world  and  me  rejoice  ! 
Awake  !  Awake  !  • 

She  comes^  at  last^for  Lovers  sweet  sake  ! 


VII.— TO  MY  LYRE. 

Sleep,  —  sleep,  my  Lyre  ! 

Untouched,  —  unsought,  —  unstrung  ! 

No  one  now  will  e'er  inquire 

If  poet  to  thee  ever  sung  ; 

Nor  if  his  spirit  clung 

To  thy  witching  wire  !  — 

Bid  thy  soul  of  music  sleep. 

As  winds  lie  on  the  charmed  deep, 

When  the  mistress  Moon  doth  chide 

The  tempest,  or  the  murmuring  tide  ! 

'T  is  well  to  be  a  thing  forgot ! 

Oblivion  is  a  happy  lot ! 

'T  is  well  that  neither  Love,  nor  Woe, 

Nor  sad,  sweet  thoughts  of  "  long  ago," 

Should  'waken  again  thy  self-consuming  fire  ! 

Therefore,  therefore,  —  sleep,  my  Lyre  ! 


SONGS. 


VIII.  — THE  ONSET.    A  BATTLE  SONG. 

Sound  an  alarum  !     The  foe  is  come  ! 
I  hear  the  tramp,  the  neigh,  the  hum, 
The  cry,  and  the  blow  of  his  daring  drum  ! 

Huzzah  ! 
Sound  !     The  blast  of  our  trumpet  blown 
Shall  carry  dismay  into  hearts  of  stone. 
What !  shall  we  shake  at  a  foe  unknown  ? 

Huzzah  !  —  Huzzah  ! 

Have  we  not  sinews  as  strong  as  they  } 
Have  we  not  hearts  that  ne'er  gave  way  .? 
Have  we  not  God  on  our  side  to-day  } 

Huzzah  ! 
Look  !     They  are  staggered  on  yon  black  heath 
Steady  awhile,  and  hold  your  breath  ! 
Now  is  your  time,  men  !  —  Down  like  Death  ! 

Huzzah  !  —  Huzzah  ! 

Stand  by  each  other,  and  front  your  foes  ! 
Fight,  whilst  a  drop  of  the  red  blood  flows  ! 
Fight,  as  ye  fought  for  the  old  red  rose  ! 

Huzzah  ! 
Sound  !     Bid  your  terrible  trumpets  bray  ! 
Blow,  till  their  brazen  throats  give  way  ! 
Sound  to  the  battle  !     Sound,  I  say  ! 

Huzzah  !  —  Huzzah  ! 


10  SONGS. 


IX.  -  SONG  FOR  TWILIGHT, 

SBT  TO  MUSIC  BV   THB  CHEVALIER  NBOKOMM. 

Hide  me,  O  twilight  Air  ! 

Hide  me,  from  thought,  from  care, 

From  all  things,  foul  or  fair. 

Until  to-morrow  ! 
To-night  I  strive  no  more  ; 
No  more  my  soul  shall  soar : 
Come,  Sleep,  and  shut  the  door 

'Gainst  Pain  and  Sorrow ! 

If  I  must  see  through  dreams, 
Be  mine  Elysian  gleams. 
Be  mine  by  morning  streams 

To  watch  and  wander  ! 
So  may  my  spirit  cast 
(Serpent-like)  off  the  past, 
And  my  free  soul  at  last 

Have  leave  to  ponder  ! 

And  shouldst  thou  'scape  control. 
Ponder  on  love,  sweet  Soul, 
On  joy,  —  the  end,  the  goal. 

Of  all  endeavour ! 
But  if  earth's  pains  will  rise, 
(As  damps  will  seek  the  skies,) 
Then,  Night,  seal  thou  mine  eyes, 

In  sleep,  for  ever ! 


soNes.  11 


X.-THE  HUNTER'S  SONG. 

SET  TO   MCSIC   BY   THE   CHEVALIEH    NEUKOMM. 

Rise  !     Sleep  no  more  !     'T  is  a  noble  morn  : 
The  dews  hang  thick  on  the  fringed  thorn, 
And  the  frost  shrinks  back,  like  a  beaten  hound, 
Underthe  steaming,  steaming  ground. 
Behold,  where  the  billowy  clouds  flow  by. 
And  leave  us  alone  in  the  clear  gray  sky  ! 
Our  horses  are  ready  and  steady.  —  So,  ho  ! 
I  'm  gone,  like  a  dart  from  the  Tartar's  bow. 

Hark,  hark  !  —  Wlio  calhlh  the  maiden  Morn 
From  her  sleep  in  the  woods  and  the  stuhble  corn  7 

The  horn,  —  the  horn  ! 
The  merry,  sweet  ring  of  the  hunter''s  horn. 

Now,  thorough  the  copse,  where  the  fox  is  found. 
And  over  the  stream,  at  a  mighty  bound. 
And  over  the  high  lands,  and  over  the  low. 
O'er  furrows,  o'er  meadows,  the  hunters  go  ! 
Away  !  —  as  a  hawk  flies  full  at  its  prey. 
So  flieth  the  hunter,  away,  —  away  ! 
From  the  burst  at  the  cover  till  set  of  sun. 
When  the  red  fox  dies,  and  —  the  day  is  done  ! 

Hark,  hark  !  —  What  sound  on  the  wind  is  home  ? 

'Tis  the  conquering  voice  of  the  hunter''s  horn. 
The  horn,  —  the  horn  ! 

The  merry,  hold  voice  of  the  hunfer''s  horn. 


12  SONGS. 

Sound !     Sound  the  horn  !     To  the  hunter  good 
What 's  the  gulley  deep  or  the  roaring  flood  ? 
Right  over  he  bounds,  as  the  wild  stag  bounds, 
At  the  heels  of  his  swift,  sure,  silent  hounds. 
O,  what  delight  can  a  mortal  lack. 
When  he  once  is  firm  on  his  horse's  back. 
With  his  stirrups  short,  and  his  snaffle  strong, 
And  the  blast  of  the  horn  for  his  morning  song  ? 

Hark,  hark  !  —  Noip,  home  !  and  dream  fill  morn 
Of  the  hold,  siceet  sound  of  the  hunter''s  horn  ! 

The  horn,  —  the  horn  ! 
O,  the  sound  of  all  sounds  is  the  hunter'' s  horn  ! 


XI,  — THE   RECALL. 

Come  again  !     Come  again  ! 

Sunshine  cometh  after  rain. 

As  a  lamp  fed  newly  burneth. 

Pleasure,  who  doth  fly,  returneth, 

Scattering  every  cloud  of  pain. 

As  the  year,  which  dies  in  showers, 

Riseth  in  a  world  of  flowers, 

Called  by  many  a  vernal  strain, 

Come  thou,  —  for  whom  tears  were  falling, 

And  a  thousand  tongues  are  calling  ! 

Come  again,  O,  come  again  ! 

Like  the  sunshine  after  rain  ! 


SONGS.  13 


XII.— THE  EXILE'S  FAREWELL. 

SET  TO   MUSIC   BT  THE  CHEVALIER   NEDKOMM. 

Faeewell  Old  England's  shores  ! 

Farewell  her  rugged  men ! 
Now,  sailors,  strain  your  oars  ! 

I  ne'er  will  look  again. 
I  've  lived,  —  I  've  sought,  —  I  've  seen,- 

O,  things  I  love  too  well, 
Upon  those  shores  of  green : 

So,  England  !  long  farewell ! 

Fareicell  ! 

I  go,  —  what  matter  where  ? 

The  E.xile,  when  he  flies, 
Thinks  not  of  other  air,  — 

Dreams  not  of  alien  skies  : 
He  seeks  but  to  depart 

From  the  land  he  loves  too  well,  — 
From  thoughts  that  smite  his  heart : 

So,  England  !  long  farewell  ! 

Farewell ! 

O'er  lands  and  the  lonely  main, 

A  lonelier  man,  I  roam. 
To  seek  some  balm  for  pain,  — 

Perhaps  to  find  a  home  : 


14  SONGS. 

I  go,  —  but  Time  nor  tide, 
Nor  all  that  tongue  may  tell, 

Shall  e'er  from  thee  divide 
My  heart,  —  and  so,  farewell ! 

Old  England^  fare  thee  well  ! 


XIII— ON  A  MOTHER  AND  CHILD  SLEEPING. 

Night,  gaze,  but  send  no  sound  ! 

Fond  heart,  thy  fondness  keep  ! 
Nurse  Silence,  wrap  them  round  ! 

Breathe  low  ;  —  they  sleep,  they  sleep  ! 

No  wind  !  no  murmuring  showers  ! 

No  music,  soft  and  deep  ! 
No  thoughts,  nor  dreams  of  flowers  ! 

All  hence  ;  —  they  sleep,  they  sleep  ! 

Time's  step  is  all  unheard  : 

Heaven's  stars  bright  silence  keep  : 
No  breath,  no  sigh,  no  word  ! 

All 's  still ;  —  they  sleep,  they  sleep ! 

O  Life  !  O  Night !  O  Time  ! 

Thus  ever  round  them  creep  ! 
From  pain,  from  hate,  from  crime. 

E'er  guard  them,  gentle  Sleep  ! 


SONGS.  15 


XTV  —  THE  SEA-KING. 

SET  TO    Ml'SIC    BY   THE   CHEVALIER   NECKOMM. 

Come  sing,  come  sing,  of  the  great  Sea-King, 

And  the  fame  that  now  hangs  o'er  him, 
Who  once  did  sweep  o'er  the  vanquished  deep. 

And  drove  the  world  before  him  ! 
His  deck  was  a  throne,  on  the  ocean  lone, 

And  the  sea  was  his  park  of  pleasure. 
Where  he  scattered  in  fear  the  human  deer. 
And  rested  —  when  he  had  leisure  ! 

Come,  —  shout,  and  sing 
Of  the  great  Sea-King, 
And  ride  in  the  track  he  rode  in  ! 
He  sits  at  the  head 
Of  the  mighty  dead. 
On  the  red  right-hand  of  Odin  ! 

He  sprang,  from  birth,  like  a  God  on  earth, 

And  soared  on  his  victor  pinions, 
And  he  traversed  the  sea,  as  the  eagles  flee, 

When  they  look  on  their  blue  dominions. 
His  whole  earth  life  was  a  conquering  strife. 

And  he  lived  till  his  beard  grew  hoary, 
And  he  died  at  last,  by  his  blood-red  mast, 

And  now  —  he  is  lost  in  glory  ! 

So,  —  shout  and  sing,  ^c. 


16  SONGS. 


XV.  — THE  WILD  CHERRY-TREE. 

O,  THERE  never  was  yet  so  fair  a  thing, 

By  racing  river  or  bubbling  spring, 

Nothing  that  ever  so  gayly  grew 

Up  from  the  ground  when  the  skies  were  blue. 

Nothing  so  brave,  nothing  so  free, 

As  thou,  —  my  wild,  wild  Cherry-tree  ! 

Jove  !  how  it  danced  in  the  gusty  breeze  ! 
Jove  !  how  it  frolicked  amongst  the  trees  ! 
Dashing  the  pride  of  the  poplar  down. 
Stripping  the  thorn  of  his  hoary  crown ! 
Oak  or  ash,  —  what  matter  to  thee  ? 
'T  was  the  same  to  my  wild,  wild  Cherry-tree. 

Never  at  rest,  like  one  that 's  young 
Abroad  to  the  winds  its  arms  it  flung. 
Shaking  its  bright  and  crowned  head, 
Whilst  I  stole  up  for  its  berries  red. 
Beautiful  berries  !  beautiful  tree  ! 
Hurrah  !  for  the  wild,  wild  Cherry-tree  ! 

Back  I  fly  to  the  days  gone  by, 

And  I  see  thy  branches  against  the  sky, 

I  see  on  the  grass  thy  blossoms  shed, 

1  see  (nay,  I  taste)  thy  berries  red. 

And  I  shout,  like  the  tempest  loud  and  free, 

Hurrah  !  for  the  wild,  wild  Cherry-tree  ! 


SONGS. 


XVI. -THE  COMMON  LOT. 

Mourn  not  thy  daughter  fading  ! 

It  is  the  common  lot, 
That  those  we  love  should  come  and  go, 
And  leave  us  in  this  world  of  woe  : 

So,  murmur  not ! 

Her  life  was  short,  but  fair, 

Unsullied  by  a  blot ; 
And  now  she  sinks  to  dreamless  rest,  — 
(A  dove,  who  makes  the  earth  her  nest ;) 

So,  murmur  not ! 

No  pangs,  nor  passionate  grief. 

Nor  anger  raging  hot, 
No  ills  shall  ever  harm  her  more  ; 
She  goes  unto  the  silent  shore. 

Where  pain  is  not. 

Weep'st  thou  that  none  should  mourn 

For  thee,  and  thy  sad  lot  ? 
Peace,  peace  !  and  know  that  few  e'er  grieve 
When  Death,  the  tyrant,  doth  unweave 

Life's  little  knot. 
2 


1$  SONGS. 

E'en  thou  scarce  wept  must  fade  ! 

It  is  the  common  lot, 
To  link  our  hearts  to  things  that  fly,  • 
To  love  without  return, —  and  die, 

And  be  —  forgot ! 


XVII.  — THE  LITTLE  VOICE. 

SET  TO   MUSIC    BY   THE   CHEVALIER    NEOKOMM. 

Once  there  was  a  little  Voice, 
Merry  as  the  month  of  May, 

That  did  cry  "  Rejoice  !  Rejoice  ! 
Now  —  't  is  flown  away  ! 

Sweet  it  was,  and  very  clear, 
Chasing  every  thought  of  pain  : 

Summer  !  shall  I  ever  hear 
Such  a  voice  again  ? 

I  have  pondered  all  night  long. 

Listening  for  as  soft  a  sound  ; 
But  so  sweet  and  clear  a  song 
•   Never  have  I  found  ! 

I  would  give  a  mine  of  gold. 
Could  I  hear  that  little  Voice,  — 

Could  I,  as  in  days  of  old. 
At  a  sound  rejoice  ! 


SONGS.  19 

XVm.  — A  BACXJHANALIAN  SONG. 

SET  TO  MtrSIC  BY   MB.   H.   PHIU.IPS. 

Sing  !  —  Who  sings 
To  her  who  weareth  a  hundred  rings  ? 
Ah,  who  is  this  lady  fine .'' 
The  Vine,  boys,  the  Vine  ! 
The  mother  of  mighty  Wine. 
A  roamer  is  she 
O'er  wall  and  tree. 
And  sometimes  very  good  company. 

Drink !  —  Who  drinks 
To  her  who  blusheth  and  never  thinks  ? 
Ah,  who  is  this  maid  of  thine  ? 
The  Grape,  boys,  the  Grape  ! 
O,  never  let  her  escape 
Until  she  be  turned  to  Wine  ! 
For  better  is  she 
Than  vine  can  be. 
And  very,  very  good  company  ! 

Dream  !  —  Who  dreams 
Of  the  God  who  governs  a  thousand  streams  ? 
Ah,  who  is  this  Spirit  fine  ? 
'T  is  Wine,  boys,  't  is  Wine  ! 
God  Bacchus,  a  friend  of  mine. 
O,  better  is  he 
Than  grape  or  tree, 
And  the  best  of  all  good  company  ! 


20  SONGS. 


XIX.  — DARK-EYED  BEAUTY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Dark-eyed  beauty  of  the  South ! 
Mistress  of  the  rosy  mouth  ! 
Doth  thy  heart  desert  its  duty  ? 
Doth  thy  blood  belie  thy  beauty  ? 
Art  thou  false,  and  art  thou  cold  ? 
Art  thou  sworn  to  wed  for  gold  ? 

On  thy  forehead  sitteth  pride, 
Crowned  with  scorn  and  falcon-eyed  ; 
But  beneath,  methinks,  thou  twinest 
Silken  smiles  that  seem  divinest. 
Can  such  smiles  be  false  and  cold  ? 
Canst  thou,  will  thou,  wed  for  gold  ? 

We,  who  dwell  on  Northern  earth, 
Fill  the  frozen  air  with  mirth, — 
Soar  upon  the  wings  of  laughter, 
(Though  we  droop  the  moment  after  :) 
But,  through  all  our  regions  cold, 
None  will  sell  their  hearts  for  gold. 


SONGS.  21 

XX.  — THE  POET'S  SONG  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

SET   TO   MUSIC    BV  THE   CHEVALIER   NEUKOMM. 

How  many  summers,  love, 

Have  I  been  thine  ? 
How  many  days,  thou  dove, 

Hast  thou  been  mine  ? 
Time,  like  the  winged  wind 

When  't  bends  the  flowers, 
Hath  left  no  mark  behind, 

To  count  the  hours  ! 

Some  weight  of  thought,  though  loth, 

On  thee  he  leaves  ; 
Some  lines  of  care  round  both 

Perhaps  he  weaves  ; 
Some  fears,  —  a  soft  regret 

For  joys  scarce  known  ; 
Sweet  looks  we  half  forget ;  — 

All  else  is  flown  ! 

Ah  !  —  With  what  thankless  heart 

I  mourn  and  sing  ! 
Look,  where  our  children  start. 

Like  sudden  Spring  ! 
With  tongues  all  sweet  and  low, 

Like  a  pleasant  rhyme, 
They  tell  how  much  I  owe 

To  thee  and  Time  ! 


2Si 


SONGS. 


XXI— SHE  WAS  NOT  FAIR  NOR  FULL  OF  GRACE. 

She  was  not  fair,  nor  full  of  grace, 

Nor  crowned  with  thought  or  aught  beside  ; 
Nor  wealth  had  she,  of  mind  or  face, 

To  win  our  love,  or  raise  our  pride: 
No  lover's  thought  her  cheek  did  touch  ; 

No  poet's  dream  was  round  her  thrown  ; 
And  yet  we  miss  her,  —  ah,  too  much. 

Now  —  she  hath  flown ! 

We  miss  her  when  the  morning  calls. 

As  one  that  mingled  in  our  mirth  ; 
We  miss  her  when  the  evening  falls,  — 

A  trifle  wanted  on  the  earth  ! 
Some  fancy  small  or  subtle  thought 

Is  checked  ere  to  its  blossom  grown  ; 
Some  chain  is  broken  that  we  wrought, 

Now  —  she  hath  flown  ! 

No  solid  good,  nor  hope  defined. 

Is  marred  now  she  hath  sunk  in  night ; 
And  yet  the  strong,  immortal  Mind 

Is  stopped  in  its  triumphant  flight ! 
Stem  friend,  what  power  is  in  a  tear. 

What  strength  to  one  poor  thought  alone, 
When  all  we  know  is,  —  "  She  was  here," 

And  —  "  She  hath  flown !  " 


SONGS.  23 


XXn.  — A  SONG  FOR  THE  SEASONS. 

When  the  merry  lark  doth  gild 

With  his  song  the  summer  hours, 
And  their  nests  the  swallows  build 

In  the  roofs  and  tops  of  towers, 
And  the  golden  broom-flower  burns 

All  about  the  waste, 
And  the  maiden  May  returns 

With  a  pretty  haste,  — 

Then.,  how  merry  are  the  times  ! 

The  Summer  times  I  the  Spring  times  ! 

NoiD,  from  off  the  ashy  stone 

The  chilly  midnight  cricket  crieth, 
And  all  merry  birds  are  flown. 

And  our  dream  of  pleasure  dieth  j 
Now  the  once  blue,  laughing  sky 

Saddens  into  gray, 
And  the  frozen  rivers  sigh, 

Pining  all  away  ! 

Now,  how  solemn  are  the  times  ! 
The  Winter  times  !  the  Night  times  ! 

Yet,  be  merry  :  all  around 

Is  through  one  vast  change  resolving  : 
Even  Night,  who  lately  frowned. 

Is  in  paler  dawn  dissolving : 


24  SONGS. 

Earth  will  buret  her  fetters  strange, 

And  in  spring  grow  free  : 
All  things  in  the  world  will  change, 
Save  —  my  love  for  thee  ! 

Sing  then,  hopeful  are  all  times  ! 
Winter,  Summer,  Spring  times  ! 


XXin— THE  QUADROOX. 

Say  they  that  all  beauty  lies 
In  the  paler  maiden's  hue  ? 
Say  they  that  all  softness  flies, 
Save  from  eyes  of  April  blue  ? 
Arise  thou,  like  a  night  in  June, 
Beautiful  Quadroon ! 

Come,  —  all  dark  and  bright,  as  skies 
With  the  tender  starlight  hung  ! 
Loose  the  Love  from  out  thine  eyes  ! 
Loose  the  Angel  from  thy  tongue  ! 
Let  them  hear  Heaven's  own  sweet  tune. 
Beautiful  Quadroon  1 

Tell  them.  Beauty  (born  above) 
From  no  shade  nor  hue  doth  fly : 
All  she  asks  is  Mind,  is  Love, 
And  both  upon  thine  aspect  lie,  — 
Like  the  light  upon  the  moon. 
Beautiful  Quadroon  I 


SONGS.  25 

XXIV. -THE  BLOODHOUND. 

SKT    TO   MUSIC   BY   THE  CHEVALIBK  MBUKOMM. 

Come,  Herod,  my  hound,  from  the  stranger's  floor  ! 

Old  friend,  —  we  must  wander  the  world  once  more  ! 

For  no  one  now  liveth  to  welcome  us  back : 

So,  come  !  —  let  us  speed  on  our  fated  track. 

What  matter  the  region,  —  what  matter  the  weather, 

So  you  and  I  travel,  till  death,  together  ? 

And  in  death  r  —  why,  e'en  there  I  may  still  be  found 

By  the  side  of  my  beautiful  black  bloodhound. 

We  've  traversed  the  desert,  we  've  traversed  the  sea. 

And  we  've  trod  on  the  heights  where  the  eagles  be ; 

Seen  Tartar,  and  Arab,  and  swart  Hindoo ; 

(How  thou  puH'dst  down  the  deer  in  those  skies  of  blue  !) 

No  joy  did  divide  us  ;  no  peril  could  part 

The  man  from  his  friend  of  the  noble  heart ; 

Ay,  his  friend  ;  for  where  —  where  shall  there  ever  be 

found 
A  friend  like  his  resolute,  fond  bloodhound  ? 

What,  Herod,  old  hound  !  dost  remember  the  day 
When  I  fronted  the  wolves,  like  a  stag  at  bay  ? 
When  downwards  they  galloped  to  where  we  stood. 
Whilst  I  staggered  with  fear  in  the  dark  pine  wood  } 
Dost  remember  their  bowlings  ?  their  horrible  speed  ? 
God,  God  !  how  I  prayed  for  a  friend  in  need  ! 
And  —  he  came  !     Ah  !  't  was  then,  my  dear  Herod,  I 

found 
That  the  best  of  all  friends  was  my  bold  bloodhound. 


26 


Men  tell  us,  dear  friend,  that  the  noble  hound 

Must  for  ever  be  lost  in  the  worthless  ground  : 

Yet, '  Courage'  — '  Fidelity  '  — '  Love  '  —  (they  say) 

Bear  Man,  as  on  wings,  to  his  skies  away. 

Well,  Herod,  —  go  tell  them  whatever  may  be 

I  Ml  hope  I  may  ever  be  found  by  thee. 

If  in  sleep,  —  in  sleep  ;  if  with  skies  around, 

Mayst  thou  follow  e'en  thither,  my  dear  bloodhound  ! 


XXV.— IS  MY  LOVER  ON  THE  SEA. 

Is  my  lover  on  the  sea. 

Sailing  East,  or  sailing  West  ? 
Mighty  Ocean,  gentle  be. 

Rock  him  into  rest ! 

Let  no  angry  wind  arise. 

Nor  a  wave  with  whitened  crest : 
All  be  gentle  as  his  eyes 

When  he  is  caressed  ! 

Bear  him  (as  the  breeze  above 
Bears  the  bird  unto  its  nest) 

Here,  —  unto  his  home  of  love, 
And  there  bid  him  rest ! 


SONGS.  27 


XXVI. -THE  MISTLETOE. 

SET  TO   MUSIC   BY   THE   CHEVALIER   NEUKOMM. 

When  winter  nights  grow  long, 
And  winds  without  blow  cold, 
We  sit  in  a  ring  round  the  warm  wood-fire. 

And  listen  to  stories  old  ! 
And  we  tiy  to  look  grave,  (as  maids  should  be,) 
When  the  men  bring  in  boughs  of  the  Laurel-tree. 
O  the  Laurel,  the  evergreen  tree  ! 
The  Poets  have  laurels,  —  and  why  not  we  ? 

How  pleasant,  when  night  falls  down, 

And  hides  the  wintry  sun. 
To  see  them  come  in  to  the  blazing  fire. 

And  know  that  their  work  is  done  ; 
Whilst  many  bring  in,  with  a  laugh  or  rhyme. 
Green  branches  of  Holly  for  Christmas  time  ! 
O  the  Holly,  the  bright  green  Holly, 
It  tells  (like  a  tongue)  that  the  times  are  jolly  ! 

Sometimes —  (in  our  grave  house. 

Observe,  this  happeneth  not ;) 
But,  at  times,  the  evergreen  laurel  boughs 

And  the  holly  are  all  forgot ! 


X9  SONGS. 

And  then !  what  then  ?  why,  the  men  laugh  low, 
And  hang  up  a  branch  of  -  the  Mistletoe  ! 

O,  brave  is  the  Laurel !  and  brave  is  the  Holly  ! 

But  the  Mistletoe  banisheth  melancholy  ! 

-4/t,  nobody  knows,  nor  ever  shall  know. 

What  is  done  —  under  the  Mistletoe  ! 


XXVn.  -CONSTANCY. 

I  WOULD  I  were  the  bold  March- wind. 
The  merry,  boisterous,  bold  March-wind, 
Who  in  the  violet's  tender  eyes 
Casts  a  kiss,  —  and  forwards  flies  ! 

Yet,  —  no  !  No  slight  to  thee  ! 

O  Constancy  !  O  Constancy  ! 

I  would  I  were  the  soft  West-wind » 
The  wandering,  sighing,  soft  West-wind, 
Who  fondles  round  the  hyacinth  bells, 
Then  takes  wing,  —  as  story  tells  ! 

Yet,  —  no  !  No  slight  to  thee  ! 

O  Constancy  !  O  Constancy  ! 

No ;  rather  will  I  be  the  breeze. 
That  blows  straight  on  in  Indian  seas  ; 
Or  scents,  which,  in  the  rose's  heart. 
Live  and  love,  —  and  ne''er  depart ! 

Love,  —  Love,  — for  aye  to  thee  ! 

0  Constancy  !  0  Constancy  ! 


SONGS. 
XXVin.— THE  NIGHTS. 

BBT  TO   MUSIC   BY  THE   CHEVALIER   NEUKOMM. 

O,  THE  Summer  Night 

Has  a  smile  of  light, 
And  she  sits  on  a  sapphire  throne  ; 

Whilst  the  sweet  Winds  load  her 

With  garlands  of  odor, 
From  the  bud  to  the  rose  o'erblown  ! 

But  the  Autumn  Night 

Has  a  piercing  sight, 
And  a  step  both  strong  and  free  ; 

And  a  voice  for  wonder. 

Like  the  wrath  of  the  Thunder, 
When  he  shouts  to  the  stormy  sea  ! 

And  the  Winter  Night 
Is  all  cold  and  white. 
And  she  singeth  a  song  of  pain  ; 
Till  the  wild  bee  hummeth, 
And  warm  Spring  cometh, 
W^hen  she  dies  in  a  dream  of  rain  ! 

O,  the  Night,  the  Night ! 

'T  is  a  lovely  sight. 
Whatever  the  clime  or  time  ; 

For  sorrow  then  soareth. 

And  the  lover  outpoureth 
His  soul  in  a  star-bright  rhyme. 


29 


SONGS. 

It  bringeth  sleep 

To  the  forests  deep, 
The  forest  bird  to  its  nest ; 

To  Care  bright  hours, 

And  dreams  of  flowers, 
And  that  balm  to  the  weary,  —  Rest ! 


XXIX.— TO  A  NIGHTINGALE,   AT  MID-DA V. 

Thy  voice  is  sweet,  —  is  sad,  —  is  clear, 
And  yet,  methinks,  't  should  flow  unseen. 

Like  hidden  rivers  that  we  hear 
Singing  amongst  the  forests  green. 

Delay,  delay  !  till  downy  Eve 

Into  her  twilight  woods  hath  flown  : 

Too  soon,  musician,  dost  thou  grieve  ; 

Love  bloometh  best  (like  thought)  —  alone. 

Cease,  cease  awhile  !     Thy  holy  strain 
Should  be  amongst  the  silence  born  ; 

Thy  heart  may  then  unfold  its  pain. 
Leaning  upon  its  bridal  thorn. 

The  insect  noise,  the  human  folly 

Disturb  thy  grave  thoughts  with  their  din  ; 

Then,  cease  awhile,  bird  Melancholy, 

And  when  the  fond  Night  hears,  —  begyi ! 


SONGS.  31 


XXX.  — THE  STORMY  PETREL. 

SET  TO   MUSIC    BY  THE   CHET^-ALIER  NBUKOIW. 

A  THODSAND  milcs  from  land  are  we, 

Tossing  about  on  the  roaring  sea  ; 

From  billow  to  bounding  billow  cast, 

Like  fleecy  snow  on  the  stormy  blast  : 

The  sails  are  scattered  abroad,  like  weeds, 

The  strong  masts  shake,  like  quivering  reeds, 

The  mighty  cables,  and  iron  chains. 

The  hull,  which  all  earthly  strength  disdains. 

They  strain  and  they  crack,  and  hearts  like  stone 

Their  natural  hard,  proud  strength  disown. 

Up  and  down  !     Up  and  down  ! 

From  the  base  of  the  wave  to  the  billow's  crown, 

And  amidst  the  flashing  and  feathery  foam 

The  Stormy  Petrel  finds  a  home,  — 

A  home,  if  such  a  place  may  be. 

For  her  who  lives  on  the  wide,  wide  sea, 

On  the  craggy  ice,  in  the  frozen  air. 

And  only  seeketh  her  rocky  lair 

To  warm  her  young,  and  to  teach  them  spring 

At  once  o'er  the  waves  on  their  stormy  wing  ! 

O'er  the  Deep  !     O'er  the  Deep  ! 

Where  the  whale,  and  the  shark,  and  the  sword-fish  sleep, 

Outflying  the  blast  and  the  driving  rain. 

The  Petrel  telleth  her  tale  —  in  vain  ; 


Sa  SONGS. 

For  the  mariner  curseth  the  warning  bird 
Who  bringeth  him  news  of  the  storms  unheard  ! 
Ah  !  thus  does  the  prophet,  of  good  or  ill, 
Meet  hate  from  the  creatures  he  serveth  still : 
Yet  he  ne'er  falters  :  —  So,  Petrel !  spring 
Once  more  o'er  the  waves  on  thy  stormy  wing  ! 


XXXI.— EARTH  AND  AIR. 

How  bountiful,  how  wonderful 

Thou  art,  sweet  Air  ! 
And  yet,  albeit  thine  odors  lie 
On  every  gust  that  mocks  the  eye, 
We  pass  thy  gentle  blessings  by 

Without  a  care  ! 

How  bountiful,  how  wonderful 

Thou  art,  sweet  Earth  ! 
Thy  seasons,  changing  with  the  sun,  — 
Thy  beauty  out  of  darkness  won  ! 
And  yet,  whose  tongue  (when  all  is  done) 

Will  tell  thy  worth  ? 

The  poet's  !  —  He  alone  doth  still 

Uphold  all  worth  ! 
Then,  love  the  poet ;  —  love  his  themes, 
His  thoughts,  half-hid  in  golden  dreams, 
Which  make  thrice  fair  the  songs  and  streams 

Of  Air  and  Earth. 


SONGS.  33 


XXXn.  —SONG  OF  THE  SOLDIER  TO  HIS  SWOBD. 

My  Sword  !     My  friend !     My  noble  friend ! 

Champion  fearless  !     Servant  true  ! 

Whom  my  fathers  without  end 

In  their  thousand  battles  drew,  — 

Come  ! 

Let  me  bare  thee  to  the  light ! 

Let  me  clutch  thee  in  my  hand  ! 

0,  how  keen,  how  blue,  how  bright, 

Is  my  noble,  noble  brand  ! 

Thou  wast  plucked  from  some  base  mine,  — 

Bom  'midst  stone  and  stubborn  clay : 

Ah  !  who  dreamt  that  aught  divine 

In  that  rugged  aspect  lay  ? 

Come  ! 

Once  we  called  and  thou  didst  come, 

Straight  from  out  thy  sleep  didst  start. 

And  the  trump  and  stormy  drum 

Woke  at  once  thine  iron  heart ! 

Thou  wast  like  the  lightning,  driven 
By  the  tempest's  strength  at  speed  ! 
Brazen  shields  and  armor  riven 
Told  what  thou  couldst  do,  at  need. 
Come  ! 

Hark !  again  the  trumpets  bray  ! 
Hark  !  where  rolls  the  stormy  drum  ! 
I  am  here  to  lead  the  way  : 
Servant  of  my  fathers,  —  Come ! 
3 


34  SONGS. 


XXXni.— THE  HAPPY  HOURS. 

SET  TO  UnSIC  BY  THE  CBBVAIIBK  HEUXOMX. 

O  THE  Hours  !  the  happy  Hours ! 
When  there  shone  the  Hght  of  Love, 
And  all  the  sky  was  blue  above, 
And  the  earth  was  full  of  flowers ! 

Why  should  Time  and  Toil 

The  worth  and  beauty  spoil 

Of  such  happy  Hours  ? 

O  the  Hours  !  the  spring-time  Hours  ! 
When  the  Soul  doth  forwards  bend 
And  dream  the  sweet  world  hath  no  end, 
Neither  spot,  nor  shade,  nor  showers  ! 
Can  we  ne'er  resume 
The  love,  the  light,  the  bloom 
Of  those  vernal  Hours  ? 

Ever  do  the  year's  bright  Hours 
Come,  with  laughing  April,  round, 
And  with  her  walk  the  grassy  ground, 
When  she  calleth  forth  the  flowers : 

But  no  new  springs  bear 
To  us  thoughts  half  so  fair 
As  the  bygone  Hours  ! 


SONGS.  35 

XXXIV.— HURRAH  FOR  MEKRY  ENGLAND. 

Hurrah,  for  the  Land  of  England  ! 

Firm-set  in  the  subject  sea  ; 
Where  the  women  are  fair, 
And  the  men  (like  air) 

Are  all  lovers  of  liberty  ! 

Hurrah  !  for  merry  England  ! 

Long  life,  without  strife,  for  England  ! 

Hurrah,  for  the  Spirit  of  England  ! 

The  bold,  the  true,  the  free  ; 
Who  stretcheth  his  hand. 
With  a  king's  command. 

All  over  the  circling  sea  ! 

Hurrah  !  for  merry  England  ! 

Long  life,  without  strife,  for  England  ! 

Let  tyrants  rush  forth  on  the  nations. 

And  strive  to  chain  down  the  free ; 
But  do  Thou  stand  fast, 
From  the  first  to  the  last. 

For  "  The  Right,"  —  wheresoever  it  be  ! 
0  merry  and  nolle  England  ! 
Long  life  to  the  Spirit  of  England  ! 

Hurrah,  for  William  of  England  ! 

Our  friend,  —  as  a  King  should  be  ; 
Who  casteth  aside 
Man's  useless  pride. 

And  leans  on  his  people  free  ! 

Hurrah  !  for  the  King  of  England  ! 
The  friend  of  merry  England  ! 


36  SONGS. 

Her  King  is  the  friend  of  England  ; 

Her  guards  are  her  ships  at  sea  ; 
But  her  beauty  lies 
In  her  women's  eyes, 

And  her  strength  in  her  people  free  ! 
So,  Hurrah  for  merry  England  ! 
For  the  King  and  the  free  Men  of  England  ! 

XXXV.  — WHY  DOTH  THE  BOTTLE  STAND? 

Why  doth  the  bottle  stand,  boys  ? 
Let  the  glass  run  silent  round  ! 
Wine  should  go, 
As  the  blood  doth  flow, 
Its  course,  without  pause  or  sound. 

Scorn  not  Wine  !  —  Truth  divine 
And  Courage  dwell  with  noble  Wine. 

Send  round  the  bottle  quick,  boys  ! 
No  reason  ask  nor  pause  ! 

Wine  should  run. 

Like  a  circling  sun. 
By  its  own  unquestioned  laws. 
Scorn  not  Wine  !  8fc. 

Fill  to  the  beaded  brims,  boys. 

Let  each  gleiss,  like  a  king,  be  crowned  ! 

Drink,  —  "  Joy,  and  Wealth, 

And  a  mighty  Health," 
To  ourselves  and  the  world  around !  " 
Scorn  not  Wine  !  Sec. 


SONGS.  37 


XXXVL— COUNT  BALTHAZAR. 

SBT  TO  MC7SIC  B7  THK  CHEVALIER  NEUKOMM. 

"  A  famous  man  is  Robin  Hood  ; 
But '  each  land  '  hath  a  thief  as  good  j 
Then  let  us  chant  a  passing  stave 
In  honor  of  the  Hero  brave  !  " 

M^ordsworth's  Rob  Roy. 

Count  Balthazar  reigns  in  his  strong  stone  tower, 

Girt  round  by  his  iron  men  ; 
And  his  strength,  Hke  the  terrible  Tempest's  power, 

Sweeps  through  each  Alpine  glen  ! 

A  hunter  he  is,  though  a  monarch  grim 

He  seems  on  his  mountain  throne  ; 
But  he  hunts  not  the  stag,  nor  the  ermine  slim, 

Nor  the  wolf,  nor  the  eagle  lone. 

He  breedeth  no  cattle,  he  traineth  no  vine, 

He  hath  naught  that  is  bought  or  sold  : 
Yet  his  cellars  are  bursting  with  brave  bright  wine, 

And  his  coffers  are  crammed  with  gold. 

Whenever  he  lacketh  or  kine  or  com 

He  calls  to  his  armed  band  ; 
And  they  hunt  through  the  valleys,  from  night  till  mom, 

And  beg  for  him,  —  sword  in  hand  ! 


f  SONGS. 

So  he  drinks  and  he  revels,  till  daylight  gleams  : 

But  —  nothing  is  free  from  pain  ! 
For  a  Demon  e'er  watches  his  blood-red  dreams, 

(Whose  laughter  is  deep 

As  the  depths  of  sleep,) 

And  scares  him  to  life  again  ! 


So  Balthazar  lives,  and  so  must  he  die. 

However  the  seasons  roll ; 
The  visions  of  guilt  must  haunt  his  eye. 

And  the  dread  of  the  damned,  his  soul ! 

He  arose,  like  a  pillar  of  fire,  whose  head 

Is  borne  up  by  the  raving  blast : 
He  will  sink,  (like  the  fire,)  deserted,  —  dead. 

And  be  trodden  in  dust,  at  last ! 

So,  —  Down  with  the  tower,  the  old  stone  tower  ! 

And,  down  with  the  iron  men  ! 
Let  's  summon  our  hearts,  and  unfetter  our  power. 

And  cleanse  out  the  robbers'  den  ! 

Where  lieth  their  strength  ?     In  a  vague,  false  fame. 

Where  based  ?     On  our  fear  alone. 
Then  let  us  build  a  phantom,  and  forge  us  a  name, 

In  a  foundery  of  our  own ! 


SONGS.  39 


XXXVn.-WHEN  FRIENDS  LOOK  DARK  AND  COLD. 

SET  TO   MUSIC   BY   MR.    H.  PHILLIPS. 

When  friends  look  dark  and  cold, 

And  maids  neither  laugh  nor  sigh, 
And  your  enemy  proffers  his  gold. 
Be  sure  there  is  danger  nigh. 

O,  then  H  is  time  to  look  forward. 
And  back,  like  the  hunted  hare  ; 
And  to  watch,  as  the  little  bird  watches, 
When  the  falcon  is  in  the  air. 

When  the  trader  is  scant  of  words, 
And  your  neighbor  is  rough  or  shy. 

And  your  banker  recalls  his  hoards. 
Be  sure  there  is  danger  nigh. 

O,  then  H  is  time  to  look  forward,  SfC. 

Whenever  a  change  is  wrought, 
And  you  know  not  the  reason  why, 

In  your  own  or  an  old  friend's  thought. 
Be  sure  there  is  evil  nigh. 

0,  then  H  is  time  to  look  forward,  S^c. 


40  SONGS. 


XXXVin.  — THE  NIGHT  IS  CIX)SING  ROUND,  MOTHER. 

The  night  is  closing  round,  Mother  ! 

The  shadows  are  thick  and  deep  ! 
All  round  me  they  cling,  like  an  iron  ring, 

And  I  cannot,  cannot  sleep  ! 

Ah,  Heaven  !  —  thy  hand,  thy  hand,  Mother  ! 

Let  me  lie  on  thy  nursing  breast ! 
They  have  smitten  my  brain  with  a  piercing  pain 

But 't  is  gone  !  —  and  I  now  shall  rest, 

I  could  sleep  a  long,  long  sleep,  Mother ! 

So,  seek  me  a  calm,  cool  bed : 
You  may  lay  me  low,  in  the  virgin  snow, 

With  a  moss-bank  for  my  head. 

I  would  lie  in  the  wild,  wild  woods.  Mother ! 

Where  naught  but  the  birds  are  known  ; 
Where  nothing  is  seen,  but  the  branches  green. 

And  flowers  on  the  greensward  strewn. 

No  lovers  there  witch  the  air.  Mother  ! 

Nor  mock  at  the  holy  sky  : 
One  may  live  and  be  gay,  like  a  summer  day. 

And  at  last,  like  the  Summer,  —  die  ! 


SONGS.  41 


XXXIX. -PEACE!  WHAT  DO  TEARS  AVAIL? 

Peace  !  what  can  tears  avail  ? 
She  Ues  all  dumb  and  pale, 

And  from  her  eye 
The  spirit  of  lovely  life  is  fading,  — 

And  she  must  die  ! 
Why  looks  the  lover  wroth  ?  the  friend  upbraiding  ? 

Reply,  reply ! 

Hath  she  not  dwelt  too  long 
'Midst  pain,  and  grief,  and  wrong? 

Then,  why  not  die  ? 
Why  suffer  again  her  doom  of  sorrow. 

And  hopeless  lie  ? 
Why  nurse  the  trembling  dream  until  to-morrow  ? 

Reply,  reply ! 

Death !    Take  her  to  thine  arms, 
In  all  her  stainless  charms. 

And  with  her  fly 
To  heavenly  haunts,  where,  clad  in  brightness, 

The  Angels  lie ! 
Wilt  bear  her  there,  O  Death !  in  all  her  whiteness  ? 

Reply,  reply ! 


4S  SONGS. 


XL.  — THE  WOOD-THRUSH. 

Whither  hath  the  Wood-thrush  flown, 
From  our  greenwood  bowers  ? 

Wherefore  builds  he  not  again, 
Where  the  white-thorn  flowers  ? 

Bid  him  come  !  for  on  his  wings, 
The  sunny  year  he  bringeth ; 

And  the  heart  unlocks  its  springs, 
Wheresoe'er  he  singeth. 

Lover-like  the  creature  waits, 
And  when  Morning  soareth, 

All  his  little  soul  of  song 
Tow'rd  the  dawn  he  poureth. 

Sweet  one,  why  art  thou  not  heard 
Now,  where  woods  are  stillest  ? 

O,  come  back  !  and  bring  with  thee, 
—  Whatsoe'er  thou  wiliest ;  — 

Laughing  thoughts,  —  delighting  songs,- 

Dreams  of  azure  hours, — 
Something, —  nothing  ;  — ^  all  we  ask 

Is  to  see  thee  ours ! 

'T  is  enough  that  thou  shouldst  sing 
For  thy  own  pure  pleasure  ! 

'T  is  enough  that  thou  hast  once 
Sweetened  human  leisure ! 


SONGS.  43 

XU.  — MIDNIGHT  RHYMES. 

SET  TO   MTTSIC   BY  THE   CHEVALIER   NECKOMM. 

O,  't  is  merry  when  stars  are  bright 

To  sing,  as  you  pace  along, 
Of  the  things  that  are  dreamt  by  night. 

To  the  motion  of  some  old  song : 
For  the  fancy  of  mortals  teems, 
Whether  they  wake  or  sleep. 
With  figures,  that  shine  like  dreams, 
Then  —  die  in  the  darkness  deep  ! 

O,  merry  are  Christmas  limes. 
And  merry  the  belfry  chimes; 
But  the  merriest  things 
That  a  man  e'er  sings 
Are  his  Midnight  Rhymes  ! 

'T  is  night  when  the  usurers  feel 

That  their  money  is  thrice  repaid  ; 
'T  is  night  when  adorers  kneel. 

By  scores,  to  the  sleeping  maid  ; 
'T  is  night  when  the  author  deems 

That  his  critics  are  all  at  bay. 
And  the  gamester  regains  in  dreams 

The  gold  that  he  lost  by  day. 

0,  merry  are  Christmas  times,  4*c. 

At  night,  both  the  sick  and  the  lame 

Abandon  their  world  of  care  ; 
And  the  creature  that  droops  with  shame 

Forgetteth  her  old  despair  ! 
The  boy  on  the  raging  deep 

Laughs  loud  that  the  skies  are  clear ; 


44-  SONGS. 

And  the  murderer  turns,  in  sleep, 
And  dreams  that  a  pardon  's  near ! 

0,  merry  are  Christmas  times,  ^c. 

At  night,  all  wrongs  are  right, 

And  all  perils  of  life  grow  smo'oth ; 
Then  why  cometh  the  fierce  daylight, 

When  fancy  is  bright  as  truth  ? 
All  hearts,  'tween  the  earth  and  the  moon, 

Recover  their  hopes  again : 
Ah,  —  't  is  pity  so  sweet  a  tune 

Should  ever  be  jarred  by  pain  ! 

Yet,  —  merry  are  Christmas  times,  Sfc. 

XLH.— A  LOVE  SONG. 

Give  me  but  thy  heart,  though  cold  ; 

I  ask  no  more  ! 
Give  to  others  gems  and  gold ; 

But  leave  me  poor ! 
Give  to  whom  thou  wilt  thy  smiles ; 
Ceist  o'er  others  all  thy  wiles ; 
But  let  thy  tears  flow  fast  and  free, 
For  me,  with  me  I 

Giv'st  thou  but  one  look,  sweet  heart  ? 

A  word,  —  no  more  ? 
It  is  Music's  sweetest  part 

When  lips  run  o'er ! 
'T  is  a  part  I  fain  would  learn. 
So,  pr'ythee,  here  thy  lessons  turn, 
And  teach  me,  to  the  close. 
All  Love's  pleasures,  —  all  its  woes ! 


SONGS,  45 


XLin.  — THE  STRANGER. 

A  Stranger  came  to  a  rich  man's  door. 

And  smiled  on  his  mighty  feast ; 
And  away  his  brightest  child  he  bore, 

And  laid  her  toward  the  East. 

He  came  next  spring,  with  a  smile  as  gay, 
(At  the  time  when  the  East  wind  blows,) 

And  another  bright  creature  he  led  away, 
With  a  cheek  like  a  burning  rose. 

And  he  came  once  more,  when  the  spring  was  blue. 

And  whispered  the  last  to  rest. 
And  bore  her  away,  —  yet  nobody  knew 

The  name  of  the  dreadful  guest ! 

Next  year,  there  was  none  but  the  rich  man  left,  — 

Left  alone  in  his  pride  and  pain, 
Who  called  on  the  Stranger,  like  one  bereft. 

And  sought  through  the  land, —  in  vain  ! 

He  came  not :  he  never  was  heard  nor  seen 

Again  ;  (so  the  story  saith  :) 
But,  wherever  his  terrible  smile  had  been. 

Men  shuddered,  and  talked  of —  Death  ! 


4S  SONGS. 


XUV.-SONG  IN  PRAISE  OF  SPRING. 

When  the  wind  blows 

In  the  sweet  rose-tree, 
And  the  cow  lows 

On  the  fragrant  lea, 
And  the  stream  flows 

All  bright  and  free, 

'T  is  not  for  thee,  't  is  not  for  me ; 
'T  is  not  for  any  one  here,  I  trow : 

The  gentle  wind  bloweth. 

The  happy  cow  loweth. 

The  merry  stream  floweth, 
For  all  below ! 

O  the  Spring  !  the  bountiful  Spring  ! 
She  shineth  and  smileth  on  every  thing. 

Where  come  the  sheep  ? 

To  the  rich  man's  moor. 
Where  cometh  sleep  ? 

To  the  bed  that 's  poor. 
Peasants  must  weep. 

And  kings  endure  ; 

That  is  a  fate  that  none  can  cure : 
Yet  Spring  doeth  all  she  can,  I  trow  : 

She  bringeth  the  bright  hours, 

She  weaveth  the  sweet  flowers, 

She  dresseth  her  bowers. 
For  all  below  !  —  0  the  Spring,  4*c. 


SONGS.  47 


XL  v.— THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  BRIDAL. 

Now,  what  shady  wreath  wilt  wear, 
Maiden,  —  Maiden  ? 
Bid  them  bind  the  veil  with  care, 
Round  the  sunshine  of  thy  hair ! 
Let  thy  brow  be  free  from  scorn  ; 
Let  thine  eye  have  gentle  light, 
On  the  gentle  marriage  morn  ; 
And  so  —  Good  Night ! 

It  is  now  the  youth  of  May, 
Maiden,  —  Maiden  ! 
Choose  thou,  then,  at  blush  of  day, 
Buds  and  blossoms,  not  too  gay  ; 
And,  behind  their  veiling  sweets, 
Bashful  be,  'midst  all  their  light. 
When  the  tender  lover  greets ; 
And  so  —  Good  Night ! 

Soon  To-morrow  will  be  here, 
Maiden,  —  Maiden ! 
Then,  —  as  hopes  aye  mix  with  fears, 
Mix  thou  smiles  with  pearled  tears  ; 
So  shall  he  who  loves  thee  feel 
Thrice  his  first  sweet,  pure  delight. 
And  nearer  to  thy  bosom  steal ; 
And  so  —  Good  Night ! 


48  SONGS. 


XLVl.  — A  DEEP  AND  A  MIGHTY  SHADOW. 

A  DEEP  and  a  mighty  shadow 

Across  my  heart  is  thrown, 
Like  the  cloud  on  a  summer  meadow, 

Where  the  Thunder-wind  hath  blown  ! 
The  wild- rose,  Fancy,  dieth. 

The  sweet  bird,  Memory,  flieth. 
And  leaveth  me  alone,  — 

Alone  with  my  hopeless  Sorrow  : 

No  other  mate  I  know  ! 
I  strive  to  awake  To-morrow  ; 

But  the  dull  words  will  not  flow  ! 
I  pray,  —  but  my  prayers  are  driven 
Aside,  by  the  angry  Heaven, 

And  weigh  me  down  with  woe  ! 

I  call  on  the  Past,  to  lend  me 
Its  songs,  to  soothe  my  pain  : 

I  bid  the  dim  Future  send  me 
A  light  from  its  eyes,  —  in  vain ! 

Naught  comes  ;  but  a  shrill  cry  starteth 

From  Hope,  as  she  fast  departeth  ;  — 
"  1  go,  and  come  not  again  !  " 


SONGS.  49 


XLVII.  —  BELSHAZZAR. 


Belshazzar  is  King !  Belshazzar  is  Lord  ! 

And  a  thousand  dark  nobles  all  bend  at  his  board : 

Fruits  glisten,  flowers  blossom,  meats  steam,  and  a  flood 

Of  the  wine  that  man  loveth  runs  redder  than  blood  : 

Wild  dancers  are  there,  and  a  riot  of  mirth, 

And  the  beauty  that  maddens  the  passions  of  earth ; 

And  the  crowds  all  shout. 

Till  the  vast  roofs  ring,  — 
"  All  praise  to  Belshazzar,  Belshazzar  the  king  !  " 

"  Bring  forth,"  cries  the  Monarch,  "  the  vessels  of  gold, 
Which  my  father  tore  down  from  the  temples  of  old  ;  — 
Bring  forth,  and  we  '11  drink,  while  the  trumpets  are 

blown. 
To  the  Gods  of  bright  silver,  of  gold,  and  of  stone : 
Bring  forth  !  "  —  and  before  him  the  vessels  all  shine, 
And  he  bows  unto  Baal,  and  he  drinks  the  dark  wine  ; 

WhDst  the  trumpets  bray, 

And  the  cymbals  ring,  — 
"  Praise,  praise  to  Belshazzar,  Belshazzar  the  king  ! '' 

Now  what  conieth  —  look,  look !  —  without  menace,  or 

call  ? 
Who  writes,  with  the  Lightning's  bright  hand,  on  the 

wall  ? 
What  pierceth  the  king,  like  the  point  of  a  dart  ? 
What  drives  the  bold  blood  from  his  cheek  to  his  heart  ? 
4 


&0 


"  Chaldeans  !  Magicians !  the  letters  expound  ! " 
They  are  read,  —  and  Belshazzar  is  dead  on  the  ground ! 

Hark  !  —  The  Persian  is  come 

On  a  conqueror's  wing ; 
And  a  M ede  's  on  the  throne  of  Belshazzar  the  king ! 

XLVni.— THE  HEART-BROKEN. 

SET  TO  MDSIO   BT   THE  CHEVALIER  NECTKOHH. 

Gentle  Mother,  do  not  weave 
Garlands  for  my  forehead  pale  ! 

Unto  hearts  that  e'er  must  grieve, 
What  do  crowns  avail  ? 

Tell  me  not  of  bridal  flowers ! 

What  are  they  when  life  is  past  ? 
Tell  me  not  of  happy  hours, 

When  they  flee  so  fast ! 

Bind  thy  cypress  round  my  heart ! 

Hide  me  in  the  mortal  pall ! 
Show  them,  when  all  hopes  depart, 

What  sad  things  befall ! 

I  am  —  dead,  a  statue,  left 

Pointing  perils  out  unknown, 
Shorn  of  life,  and  love-bereft, 

All  my  youth  o'erthrown  ! 
All  o'erthrown  ! 


SONGS.  51 


XLC  — A  PHANTASY. 

Feed  her  with  the  leaves  of  Love,  — 
(Love,  the  rose,  that  blossoms  here)  ! 
Music,  gently  round  her  move  ! 
Bind  her  to  the  cypress  near  ! 
Weave  her  round  and  round, 
With  skeins  of  silken  sound  ! 
'T  is  a  little  stricken  deer, 
Who  doth  from  the  hunter  fly, 
And  comes  here  to  droop,  —  to  die, 
Ignorant  of  her  wound  ! 

Soothe  her  with  sad  stories, 

O  poet,  till  she  sleep  ! 

Dreams,  come  forth  with  all  your  glories  ! 

Night,  breathe  soft  and  deep  ! 

Music,  round  her  creep  ! 

If  she  steal  away  to  weep. 

Seek  her  out,  —  and,  when  you  find  her, 

Gentle,  gentlest  Music,  wind  her 

Round  and  round. 

Round  and  round, 

With  your  bands  of  softest  sound  ;  — 

Such  as  we,  at  nightfall,  hear 

In  the  wizard  forest  near. 

When  the  charmed  Maiden  sings 

At  the  hidden  springs  ! 


52  SONGS. 


I LIFE. 

We  are  born  ;  we  laugh ;  we  weep  ; 

We  love  ;  we  droop  ;  we  die  ! 
Ah  !  wherefore  do  we  laugh  or  weep  ? 

Why  do  we  live,  or  die  ? 
Who  knows  that  secret  deep  ? 

Alas,  not  I ! 

Why  doth  the  violet  spring 

Unseen  by  human  eye  ? 
Why  do  the  radiant  seasons  bring 

Sweet  thoughts  that  quickly  fly  ? 
Why  do  our  fond  hearts  cling 

To  things  that  die  .'' 

We  toil,  —  through  pain  and  wrong  ; 

We  fight,  —  and  fly  ; 
We  love  ;  we  lose  ;  and  then,  ere  long. 

Stone-dead  we  lie. 
0  life  !  is  all  thy  song 

"  Endure  and  —  die  ?  " 


SONGS. 


PART  THE  SECOND. 


SONGS. 


PART  THE  SECOND. 


LI.— THE  RETURN  OF  THE  ADMIRAL. 

How  gallantly,  how  merrily 

We  ride  along  the  sea  ! 
The  morning  is  all  sunshine, 

The  wind  is  blowing  free : 
The  billows  are  all  sparkling, 

And  bounding  in  the  light. 
Like  creatures  in  whose  sunny  veins 

The  blood  is  running  bright. 

All  nature  knows  our  triumph  : 
Strange  birds  about  us  sweep  ; 

Strange  things  come  up  to  look  at  us, 
The  masters  of  the  deep  : 


56  SONGS. 

In  our  wake,  like  any  servant, 
Follows  even  the  bold  shark  ;  — 

O,  proud  must  be  our  Admiral 
Of  such  a  bonny  barque  ! 

Proud,  proud,  must  be  our  Admiral, 

(Though  he  is  pale  to-day,) 
Of  twice  five  hundred  iron  men. 

Who  all  his  nod  obey ; 
Who  've  fought  for  him  and  conquered. 

Who  've  won,  with  sweat  and  gore. 
Nobility  !  which  he  shall  have 

Whene'er  he  touch  the  shore. 
O,  would  I  were  our  Admiral, 

To  order,  with  a  word,  — 
To  lose  a  dozen  drops  of  blood, 

And  straight  rise  up  a  lord  ! 
I  'd  shout  e'en  to  yon  shark,  there. 

Who  follows  in  our  lee, 
"  Some  day,  I  '11  make  thee  carry  me, 

Like  lightning,  through  the  sea." 

The  Admiral  grew  paler, 

And  paler  as  we  flew  : 
Still  talked  he  to  his  officers. 

And  smiled  upon  his  crew  ; 
And  he  looked  up  at  the  heavens, 

And  he  looked  down  on  the  sea, 


SONGS.  SF 

And  at  last  he  spied  the  creature, 

That  kept  following  in  our  lee. 
He  shook  —  't  was  but  an  instant  — 

For  speedily  the  pride 
Ran  crimson  to  his  heart, 

Till  all  chances  he  defied  : 
It  threw  boldness  on  his  forehead  ; 

Grave  firmness  to  his  breath ; 
And  he  stood  like  some  grim  warrior 

New  risen  up  from  death. 

That  night,  a  horrid  whisper 

Fell  on  us  where  we  lay  ; 
And  we  knew  our  old  fine  Admiral 

Was  changing  into  clay  ; 
And  we  heard  the  wash  of  waters. 

Though  nothing  could  we  see. 
And  a  whistle,  and  a  plunge 

Among  the  billows  in  our  lee  ! 
Till  dawn  we  watched  the  body 

In  its  dead  and  ghastly  sleep, 
And  next  evening  at  sunset 

It  was  slung  into  the  deep  ! 
And  never,  from  that  moment, 

Save  one  shudder  through  the  sea, 
Saw  we  (or  heard)  the  shark 

That  had  followed  in  our  lee  ! 


58  SONGS. 


Ln.— HOME.    (A  DUET.) 

He.    Dost  thou  love  wandering  1     Whither  wouldst  thou  go? 
Dream'st  thou,  sweet  daughter,  of  a  land  more  fair? 
Dost  thou  not  love  these  aye-blue  streams  that  flow  1 
These  spicy  forests?  and  this  golden  air? 

She.  O,  yes,  I  love  the  woods,  and  streams,  so  gay ; 
And,  more  than  all,  O  father,  I  love  thee; 
Yet  would  I  fain  be  wandering  —  far  away, 

Where  such  things  never  were,  nor  e'er  shall  be. 

He.    Speak,  mine  own  daughter  with  the  sunbright  locks ! 

To  what  pale,  banished  region  wouldst  thou  roam  ? 
Slie.  O  father,  let  us  find  our  frozen  rocks ! 

Let  's  seek  that  country  of  all  countries,  —  Home  ! 

He.    Seest  thou  these  orange  flowers  ?  this  palm  that  rears 

Its  head  up  towards  Heaven's  blue   and  cloudless 
dome  ? 

She.  I  dream,  I  dream ;  mine  eyes  are  hid  in  tears  : 

My  heart  is  wandering  round  our  ancient  home. 

He.    Why,  then,  we  '11  go.     Farewell,  ye  tender  skies, 
Who  sheltered  us,  when  we  were  forced  to  roam ! 

She.  On,  on  !     Let  's  pass  the  swallow  as  he  flies  ! 

Farewell,  kind  land  I    Now,  father,  now,  —  for  Home ! 


SONGS. 


Lin —THE  VINTAGE-SONG. 


O  THE  merry  vintage-time  ! 
The  merry,  matchless  vintage-time  ! 
What  can  vie 
Beneath  the  sky 
With  the  merry,  merry  vintage-time  ? 
What  though  summer  birds  have  fled, 

Singing  to  some  other  clime  ; 
We  have  tongues  that  music  shed 
Still,  and  a  song  for  vintage-time  ! 

Come  !  —  O'er  the  hills  the  moon  is  glancing  ! 
Now  's  the  time  for  dancing,  dancing  ! 
Noic  's  the  time,  Now  's  the  time. 
The  merry,  merry  vintage-time  ! 

Now  's  the  happy  vintage-time  ! 
The  happy,  honored  vintage-time  ! 

E'en  great  Earth 

Doth  mix  in  mirth 
With  us,  her  sons,  at  vintage-time. 
Not  a  storm  doth  vex  her  brow, 

Flooding  rain,  nor  frosty  rime  ; 
But  the  sunny  Autumn  now 

Laugheth  out,  "  'T  is  vintage-time."  —  Come,  ifc. 

Praise,  then,  all  the  vintage-time, 
Children  of  the  vintage-time  ! 

Girls  and  boys 

Who  know  the  joys 
Of  the  merry,  fruitful  vintage-time  ! 


60  SONGS. 

Leave  to  Spring  the  love-sweet  flowers  ; 

Winter  still  its  song  and  rhyme  ; 
Summer  all  her  balmy  hours  ; 

Still  we  've  our  dance  at  vintage-time  !  —  Come^  SfC. 


LIV.-THE  EVENING  STAR. 

6BT  TO  MUSIC  BT  THB  CBEVAUER  NEDKOMM. 

The  Evening  Star,  the  lover's  star, 
The  beautiful  star,  comes  hither  ! 

He  steereth  his  barque 

Through  the  azure  dark, 
And  brings  us  the  bright  blue  weather,  —  Love ! 

The  beautiful  bright  blue  weather. 

The  birds  lie  dumb,  when  the  night  stars  come, 
And  silence  broods  o'er  the  covers  : 
But  a  voice  now  wakes 
In  the  thorny  brakes. 
And  singeth  a  song  for  lovers,  —  Love  ! 
A  sad,  sweet  song  for  lovers  1 

It  singeth  a  song,  of  grief  and  wrong, 
A  passionate  song  for  others  ; 

Yet  its  own  sweet  pain 

Can  never  be  vain, 
If  it  'wakeneth  love  in  others,  —  Love  ! 

It  'wakeneth  love  in  others. 


soxGs.  6L 


LV.— THE  WEAVER'S  SONG. 

Weave,  brothers,  weave !  —  Swiftly  throw 

The  shuttle  athwart  the  loom, 
And  show  us  how  brightly  your  flowers  grow. 

That  have  beauty  but  no  perfume  ! 
Come,  show  us  the  rose,  with  a  hundred  dyes. 

The  lily,  that  hath  no  spot ; 
The  violet,  deep  as  your  truelove's  eyes, 
And  the  little  forget-me-not ! 

Si7ig,  —  sing,  brothers  !  weave  and  sing  ! 

'  T  is  good  both  to  sing  and  to  weave : 
'  T  is  better  to  work  than  live  idle : 
'  T  is  better  to  sing  than  grieve. 

Weave,  brothers,  weave  !  —  Weave,  and  bid 

The  colors  of  sunset  glow  ! 
Let  grace  in  each  gliding  thread  be  hid ! 

Let  beauty  about  ye  blow  ! 
Let  your  skein  be  long,  and  your  silk  be  fine, 

And  your  hands  both  firm  and  sure, 
And  Time  nor  chance  shall  your  work  untwine  ; 

But  all,  —  like  a  truth,  —  endure  ! 
So,  —  sing,  brothers,  4*c. 

Weave,  brothers,  weave !  —  Toil  is  ours  ; 
But  toil  is  the  lot  of  men : 


62  SONGS. 

One  gathers  the  fruit,  one  gathers  the  flowers, 

One  soweth  the  seed  again  ! 
There  is  not  a  creature,  from  England's  king 

To  the  peasant  that  delves  the  soil, 
That  knows  half  the  pleasures  the  seasons  bring, 

If  he  have  not  his  share  of  toil ! 

So,  —  sing,  brothers,  (J-c. 


LVI— SLEEP  ON. 

SST  TO  MUSIC   BT  TUB   CHEVALIER   NEUKOHH. 

Sleep  on  !     The  world  is  vain  ; 
All  grief,  and  sin,  and  pain  : 
If  there  be  a  dream  of  joy. 
It  comes  in  slumber,  pretty  boy  ! 

So,  sweet  Sleep ! 

Hang  upon  his  eyelids  deep  ; 

Show  him  all  that  cannot  be. 

Ere  thou  dost  flee  ! 

Sleep  on  !     Let  no  bad  truth 
Fall  yet  upon  his  youth : 
Let  him  see  no  thing  unkind. 
But  live  a  little  longer  blind  ! 

O  sweet  Sleep  ! 

Hang  upon  his  eyelids  deep  ; 

Show  him  Love,  without  his  wings, 

And  all  fair  things  ! 


SONGS.  63 


LVn.— LOVE  AND  MIRTH. 

What  song  doth  the  cricket  sing  ? 
What  news  doth  the  swallow  bring  ? 
What  doth  laughing  boyhood  tell  ? 
What  calls  out  the  marriage  bell  ? 

What  say  all  ?  —  Love  and  Mirth  ! 

In  the  air,  and  in  the  earth : 

Very,  very  soft  and  me-rry 

Is  the  natural  song  of  Earth. 

Mark  the  Morn,  when  first  she  springs 
Upwards  on  her  golden  wings  ; 
Hark,  to  the  soaring,  soaring  lark  ! 
And  tlie  echoing  forests,  —  hark  ! 

What  say  they  ?  Love  and  Mirth,  8fc. 

With  the  leaves  the  apples  wrestle  ; 
In  the  grass  the  daisies  nestle  ; 
And  the  sun  smiles  on  the  wall ;  — 
Tell  us,  what  's  the  cause  of  all  ? 

Mirth  and  Love ;  Love  and  Mirth,  8fc, 

Is  it  Mirth  ?     Then  why  will  man 

Spoil  the  sweet  song  all  he  can  ? 

Bid  him,  rather,  aye  rejoice. 

With  a  kind  and  a  merry  voice  ! 

Bid  him  sing  "  Love  and  Mirth  !  " 
To  the  air,  and  to  the  earth,  Sj-c. 


SONGS. 


LVIIL  — SONG  OVER  A  CHILD. 

Dream,  Baby,  dream ! 

The  stars  are  glowing. 
Hear'st  thou  the  stream  ? 

'T  is  softly  flowing. 
All  gently  glide  the  Hours  : 
Above,  no  tempest  lowers  : 
Below,  are  fragrant  flowers 

In  silence  growing. 

Sleep,  Baby,  sleep, 

Till  dawn  to-morrow  ! 
Why  shouldst  thou  weep, 

Who  know'st  not  sorrow  ? 
Too  soon  come  pains  and  fears  ; 
Too  soon  a  cause  for  tears  : 
So  from  thy  future  years 

No  sadness  borrow  ! 

Dream,  Baby,  dream  ! 

Thine  eyelids  quiver. 
Know'st  thou  the  theme 

Of  yon  soft  river  ? 
It  saith,  "  Be  calm,  be  sure, 
Unfailing,  gentle,  pure  ; 
So  shall  thy  life  endure. 

Like  mine,  for  ever  !  " 


SONGS.  65 

LIX.— THE  LANDSMAN'S  SONG. 

BBT  TO  MUSIC  BT  THB  CHSVALIER  NEUKOHH. 

O,  WHO  would  be  bound  to  the  barren  Sea, 

If  he  could  dwell  on  Land, — 
Where  his  step  is  ever  both  firm  and  free. 

Where  flowers  arise, 

Like  sweet  girls'  eyes. 

And  rivulets  sing 

Like  birds  in  spring  ?  — 
For  me,  —  I  will  take  my  stand 

On  Land,  on  Land  ! 
For  ever  and  ever  on  solid  Land  ! 

I  've  sailed  on  the  riotous,  roaring  Sea, 

With  an  undaunted  band  : 
Yet  my  village  home  more  pleaseth  me, 

With  its  valley  gay 

Where  maidens  stray. 

And  its  grassy  mead 

Where  the  white  flocks  feed ;  — 
And  so,  —  I  will  take  my  stand 

On  Land,  on  Land  ! 
For  ever  and  ever  on  solid  Land  ! 

Some  swear  they  could  die  on  the  salt,  salt  Sea  ! 

(But  have  they  been  loved  on  Land  .?) 
Some  rave  of  the  Ocean  in  drunken  glee,  — 
Of  the  music  born 
On  a  gusty  morn, 
5 


66  SONGS. 

When  the  tempest  is  waking, 
And  billows  are  breaking, 
And  lightning  flashing, 
And  the  thick  rain  dashing. 
And  the  winds  and  the  thunders 
Shout  forth  the  sea- wonders ! 
—  Such  things  may  give  joy 
To  a  dreaming  boy  ;  — 

But  for  wie,  —  I  will  take  my  stand 
On  Land,  on  Land  ! 

For  ever  and  ever  on  solid  Land  ! 

LX.  — PERDITA. 

SET  TO  MUSIC   BY   SIGNOR  VERINI. 

The  nest  of  the  dove  is  rifled ; 

Alas  !  alas  ! 
The  dream  of  delight  is  stifled  ; 

And  all  that  was 
Of  beauty  and  hope  is  broken ; 

But  words  will  flee. 
Though  truest  were  ever  spoken :  - 

Alas,  for  me ! 

His  love  was  as  fragrant  ever, 
As  flowers  to  bees ; 

His  voice  like  the  mournful  river  ; 
But  streams  will  freeze ! 

Ah  !  where  can  I  fly,  deceived  ? 
'  Ah  !  where,  where  rest  ? 

I  am  sick,  like  the  dove  bereaved, 
And  have  no  nest ! 


SONGS.  67 


LXI.  — LOVE  THE  POET,  PRETTY  ONE! 

Love  the  poet,  pretty  one ! 

He  unfoldeth  knowledge  fair,  — 
Lessons  of  the  earth  and  sun, 

And  of  azure  air. 

He  can  teach  thee  how  to  reap 
Music  from  the  golden  lyre  : 

He  can  shew  thee  how  to  steep 
All  thy  thoughts  in  fire. 

Heed  not,  though  at  times  he  seem 
Dark  and  still,  and  cold  as  clay  : 

He  is  shadowed  by  his  Dream  ! 
But 't  will  pass  away. 

Then  —  bright  fancies  will  he  weave, 
Caught  from  air  and  heaven  above  : 

Some  will  teach  thee  how  to  grieve  ; 
Others,  how  —  to  love  ! 

How  from  sweet  to  sweet  to  rove,  — 
How  all  evil  things  to  shun  : 

Should  I  not  then  whisper, — "  Love  - 
Love  the  poet^  pretty  one  "  ? 


68  SONGS. 


LXn.-LUCY. 

Lucy  is  a  golden  girl ; 

But  a  man  —  a  man  should  woo  her ! 
They  who  seek  her  shrink  aback, 

When  they  should,  like  storms,  pursue  her. 

All  her  smiles  are  hid  in  light ; 

All  her  hair  is  lost  in  splendor  ; 
But  she  hath  the  eyes  of  Night, 

And  a  heart  that 's  over-tender. 

Yet,  —  the  foolish  suitors  fly, 

(Is  't  excess  of  dread  or  duty  ?) 
From  the  starlight  of  her  eye, 

Leaving  to  neglect  her  beauty  ! 

Men  by  fifty  seasons  taught 

Leave  her  to  a  young  beginner. 
Who,  without  a  second  thought. 

Whispers,  wooes,  and  straight  must  win  her. 

Lucy  is  a  golden  girl ! 

Toast  her  in  a  goblet  brimming  ! 
May  the  man  that  wins  her  wear 

On  his  heart  the  Rose  of  Women  ! 


SONGS.  69 


LXm.  — THE  WOOING  SONG. 

BET    TO   MCSIC    BY  THE  CHEVALIER   NECKOMM. 

O,  PLEASANT  is  the  fisher's  life, 

By  the  waters  streaming  ; 
And  pleasant  is  the  poet's  life, 

Ever,  ever  dreaming : 
And  pleasant  is  the  hunter's  life, 

O'er  the  meadows  riding  : 
And  pleasant  is  the  sailor's  life. 

On  the  seas  abiding  ! 

But,  0 1  the  merry  life  is  wooing,  is  wooing  ; 
Never  overtaking,  and  always  pursuing  ! 

The  hunter,  when  the  chase  is  done, 

Laugheth  loud  and  drinketh  ; 
The  poet,  at  the  set  of  sun, 

Sigheth  deep  and  thinketh  : 
The  sailor,  though  from  sea  withdrawn. 

Dreams  he  's  half  seas  over. 
The  fisher  dreameth  of  the  dawn. 

But,  what  dreams  the  lover  ? 

He  dreams  that  the  merry  life  is  wooing,  is  wooing  ; 
Never  overtaking,  and  always  pursuing  ! 

Some  think  that  life  is  very  long, 
And  murmur  at  the  measure  ; 


70  SONGS. 

Some  think  it  is  a  syren  song,  — 

A  short,  false,  fleeting  pleasure  : 
Some  sigh  it  out  in  gloomy  shades, 

Thinking  nought,  nor  doing  ; 
But  we  '11  ne'er  think  it  gloomy.  Maids  ! 
Whilst  there  's  time  for  wooing. 

For^  sure,  the  merry  life  is  wooing,  is  wooing ; 
Never  overtaking^  and  always  pursuing  ! 


LXIV.— HERMIONE. 

Thou  hast  beauty  bright  and  fair, 

Manner  noble,  aspect  free. 
Eyes  that  are  untouched  by  care  : 

What  then  do  we  ask  from  thee  ? 
Hermione,  Hermione  ? 

Thou  hast  reason  quick  and  strong, 
Wit  that  envious  men  admire. 

And  a  voice,  itself  a  song  ! 

What  then  can  we  still  desire  ? 
Hermione,  Hermione  7 

Something  thou  dost  want,  O  queen  ! 

(As  the  gold  doth  ask  alloy,) 
Tears,  —  amidst  thy  laughter  seen. 
Pity,  —  mingling  with  thy  joy. 

This  is  all  we  ask  from  thee, 
Hermione,  Hermione  ! 


SONGS.  71 


LXT.  — THE  0\^T.. 


In  the  hollow  tree,  in  the  old  gray  tower, 

The  spectral  Owl  doth  dwell ; 
Dull,  hated,  despised,  in  the  sunshine  hour. 

But  at  dusk  —  he  's  abroad  and  well ! 
Not  a  bird  of  the  forest  e'er  mates  with  him  ; 

All  mock  him  outright,  by  day  : 
But  at  night,  when  the  woods  grow  still  and  dim, 

The  boldest  will  shrink  away  ! 

0,  when  the  nightfalls,  and  roosts  the  fowl. 
Then,  then,  is  the  reign  of  the  Homed  Owl ! 

And  the  Owl  hath  a  bride,  who  is  fond  and  bold, 

And  loveth  the  wood's  deep  gloom  ; 
And,  with  eyes  like  the  shine  of  the  moonstone  cold, 

She  awaiteth  her  ghastly  groom  ? 
Not  a  feather  she  moves,  not  a  carol  she  sings, 

As  she  waits  in  her  tree  so  still  ; 
But  when  her  heart  heareth  his  flapping  wings. 

She  hoots  out  her  welcome  shrill ! 

O  —  wlien  the  moon  shines,  and  dogs  do  howl  I 
Then,  then,  is  the  joy  of  the  Horned  Owl! 

Mourn  not  for  the  Owl,  nor  his  gloomy  plight ! 

The  Owl  hath  his  share  of  good  : 
If  a  prisoner  he  be  in  the  broad  daylight, 

He  is  lord  in  the  dark  greenwood  ! 


72  SONGS. 

Nor  lonely  the  bird,  nor  his  ghastly  mate, 

They  are  each  unto  each  a  pride  ; 
Thrice  fonder  perhaps,  since  a  strange,  dark  fate 
Hath  rent  them  from  all  beside  ! 

So,  when  the  night  falls,  and  dogs  do  liowl. 
Sing,  Ho  !  for  the  reign  of  the  Homed  Owl  ! 
We  know  not  alway 
Who  are  kings  by  day. 
But  the  King  of  the  night  is  the  hold  hrovm  Owl ! 


LXVI.  — MARIAN. 

Spirit  of  the  summer  breeze  ! 
Wherefore  sleep'st  thou  in  the  trees  ? 
Come,  and  kiss  the  maiden  rose, 
That  on  Marian's  bosom  blows ! 

Come,  and  fawn  about  her  hair  ! 

Kiss  the  fringes  of  her  eyes  ! 
Ask  her  why  she  looks  so  fair, 

When  she  heedeth  not  my  sighs  ? 

Tell  her,  murmuring  summer  air. 
That  her  beauty  's  all  untrue  ; 

Tell  her,  she  should  not  seem  fair, 
Unless  she  be  gentle  too  ! 


SONGS.  73 


LX VII.  — THE  HiniBER  FERRY. 

Boatman,  hither !     Furl  your  sail ! 

Row  us  o'er  the  Humber  ferry ! 
Furl  it  close  !     The  blustering  gale 

Seems  as  he  would  fain  be  merry. 
Pleasant  is  he,  when  in  fun 

He  blows  about  the  bud  or  berry ; 
But  his  mirth  we  fain  would  shun, 

Out  upon  the  Humber  ferry  ! 

Now,  bold  fisher,  shall  we  go 

With  thee,  o'er  the  Humber  river  ? 
Hear'st  thou  how  the  blast  doth  blow, 

Seest  thou  how  thy  sail  doth  shiver  ? 
Wilt  thou  dare  (dismayed  by  nought) 

Wind  and  wave,  thou  bold  sea-liver  ? 
And  shall  we^  whom  love  hath  taught, 

Tremble  at  the  rolling  river ! 

Row  us  forth  !     Unfurl  thy  sail ! 

Wh^t  care  we  for  tempests  blowing  ? 
Let  us  kiss  the  blustering  gale  ! 

Let  us  breast  the  waters  flowing ! 
Though  the  North  rush  cold  and  loud. 

Love  shall  warm  and  make  us  merry ; 
Though  the  waves  all  weave  a  shroud, 

We  will  dare  the  Humber  ferry  ! 


74"  SONGS. 


LXnil.  — A  REPOSE. 

She  sleeps  amongst  her  pillows  soft, 

(A  dove,  now  wearied  with  her  flight,) 
And  all  around,  and  all  aloft. 

Hang  flutes  and  folds  of  virgin  white : 
Her  hair  outdarkens  the  dark  night, 

Her  glance  outshines  the  starry  sky  ; 
But  now  her  locks  are  hidden  quite, 

And  closed  is  her  fringed  eye  ! 

She  sleepeth :  wherefore  doth  she  start  ? 

She  sigheth  :  doth  she  feel  no  pain  ? 
None,  none  !  the  Dream  is  near  her  heart ; 

The  Spirit  of  sleep  is  in  her  brain. 
He  Cometh  down  like  golden  rain, 

Without  a  wish,  without  a  sound  ; 
He  cheers  the  sleeper  (ne'er  in  vain) 

Like  May,  when  earth  is  winter-bound. 

All  day  within  some  cave  he  lies. 

Dethroned  from  his  nightly  sway,  t- 
Far  fading  when  the  dawning  skies 

Our  souls  with  wakening  thoughts  array. 
Two  Spirits  of  might  doth  man  obey ; 

By  each  he  's  wrought,  from  each  he  learns ; 
The  one  is  Lord  of  life  by  day ; 

The  other  when  starry  Night  returns. 


SONGS.  75 


LXIX.— THE  LAKE  HAS  BURST. 

The  lake  has  burst !     The  lake  has  burst ! 
Down  through  the  chasms  the  wild  waves  flee  : 

They  gallop  along 

With  a  roaring  song, 
Away  to  the  eager  awaiting  sea  ! 

Down  through  the  valleys,  and  over  the  rocks. 
And  over  the  forests  the  flood  runs  free ; 

And  wherever  it  dashes, 

The  oaks  and  the  ashes 
Shrink,  drop,  and  are  borne  to  the  hungry  sea ! 

The  cottage  of  reeds  and  the  tower  of  stone, 
Both  sheiken  to  ruin,  at  last  agree ; 

And  the  slave  and  his  master 

In  one  wide  disaster 
Are  hurried  like  weeds  to  the  scornful  sea ! 

The  sea-beast  he  tosseth  his  foaming  mane  ; 
He  bellows  aloud  to  the  misty  sky. 

And  the  sleep-buried  Thunder 

Awakens  in  wonder. 
And  the  Lightning  opens  her  piercing  eye  ! 

There  is  death  above,  there  is  death  around. 
There  is  death  wheresoever  the  waters  be. 

There  is  nothing  now  doing 

But  terror  and  ruin, 
On  earth,  and  in  air,  and  the  stormy  sea ! 


76  SONGS. 


LXX  — SING,  MAIDEN,  SING! 

Sing,  Maiden,  sing ! 

Mouths  were  made  for  singing ; 
Listen,  —  Songs  thou  'It  hear 

Through  the  wide  world  ringing ; 
Songs  from  all  the  birds, 

Songs  from  winds  and  showers, 
Songs  from  seas  and  streams, 

Even  from  sweet  flowers. 

Hear'st  thou  the  rain, 

How  it  gently  falleth  ? 
Hearest  thou  the  bird 

Who  from  forest  calleth  ? 
Hearest  thou  the  bee 

O'er  the  sunflower  ringing  ? 
Tell  us,  Maiden,  now  — 

Shouldst  thou  not  be  singing  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  breeze 

Round  the  rose-bud  sighing  ? 
And  the  small,  sweet  rose 

Love  to  love  replying  ? 
So  shouldst  thou  reply 

To  the  prayer  we  're  bringing : 
So  that  bud,  thy  mouth, 

Should  burst  forth  in  singing ! 


SONGS.  77 


T.XXT.— MAUREEN. 


The  cottage  is  here,  as  of  old  I  remember ; 

The  pathway  is  worn,  as  it  ever  hath  been  : 
On  the  turf-piled  hearth  there  still  lives  a  bright  ember ; 
But,  —  where  is  Maureen  ? 

The  same  pleasant  prospect  still  shineth  before  me,  — 

The  river,  the  mountain,  the  valley  of  green. 
And  Heaven  itself  (a  bright  blessing  !)  is  o'er  me! 
But, — where  is  Maureen  ? 

Lost !  Lost !  —  Like  a  dream  that  hath  come  and  departed , 

(Ah,  why  are  the  loved  and  lost  ever  seen?) 
She  hath  fallen, — hath  flown,  with  a  lover  false-hearted ; 
So,  mourn  for  Maureen  ! 

And  She,  who  so  loved  her,  is  slain  (the  poor  mother), 

Struck  dead,  in  a  day,  by  a  shadow  unseen ! 
And  the  home  we  now  loved  is  the  home  of  another, 
And  —  lost  is  Maureen  ! 

Sweet  Shannon !  a  moment  by  thee  let  me  ponder ; 

A  moment  look  back  at  the  things  that  have  been ; 
Then,  away  to  the  world  where  the  ruined  ones  wander. 
To  look  for  Maureen ! 


78  SONGS. 

LXXIL  — UNEQUAL  LOVE. 

"Wailing  for  his  daemon  iover." 

Wilt  not  eat  with  me,  my  bride  ? 

Wilt  not  drink  my  amorous  wines  ? 
Dainty  meats  are  by  thy  side : 

Mark  how  bright  the  Rhenish  shines  ! 

Come,  be  kind  !    What  ills  betide  thee  7 
Is  not  he  thou  lov''st  beside  thee  ? 

Wherefore  sigh'st  thou,  maiden  mine  ? 

Must  thou  to  the  forest  haste  ? 

Nothing  have  I,  meats  nor  wine, 

That  thy  fairy  hps  may  taste  ? 

Speak,  love  !  must  I  vainly  woo  thee  1 
/,  —  who  gave  my  heart  unto  thee  ? 

Dark  one,  thou  hast  bid  me  press 

Human  love  upon  thy  lips : 

But  thou  yield'st  a  cold  caress, 

And  thy  love  is  in  eclipse ! 

Cold  and  dim  whilst  I  am  burning  ! 
In  Love,  is  there  no  returning  ? 

I  have  loved  thee,  sought,  —  pursued, — 

Won  thee  from  thy  charmed  springs. 
O,  that  I,  instead,  had  wooed 
The  humblest  girl  that  laughs  and  sings ! 
From  the  dust  thy  beauty  won  me ; 
But,  sweet  Love  !  —  He  hath  undone  me  ! 


SONGS.  79 

LXXm.  — WINE. 

SET  TO   MUSIC   BY   THE   CBETAUER   NEtTKOM^. 

I  LOVE  Wine  !     Bold  bright  Wine  ! 

That  maketh  the  Spirit  both  dance  and  shine ! 

Others  may  care 

For  water  fare ; 
But  give  me  —  Wine ! 

Ancient  Wine  !     Brave  old  Wine  ! 
How  it  around  the  heart  doth  twine  ! 

Poets  may  love 

The  stars  above ; 
But  I  love  —  Wine ! 

Nought  but  Wine  !     Noble  Wine, 
Strong,  and  sound,  and  old,  and  fine. 

What  can  scare 

The  devil  Despair, 
Like  brave  bright  Wine  ? 

O  brave  Wine  !     Rare  old  Wine  ! 
Once  thou  wast  deemed  a  God  divine ! 

Bad  are  the  rhymes, 

And  bad  the  times, 
That  scorn  old  Wine  ! 

So,  brave  Wine  !     Dear  old  Wine  ! 
Morning,  Noon,  and  Night  I  'm  thine  ! 

Whatever  may  be, 

I  '11  stand  by  thee. 
Immortal  Wine ! 


80  SONGS. 


LXXIV.  — SING!  WHO  MINGLES  WITH  MY  LAYS? 

Sing  !     who  mingles  with  my  lays  ? 
Maiden  of  the  primrose  days  ! 
Sing  with  me,  and  I  will  shew 
All  that  thou  in  spring  shouldst  know, 
All  the  names  of  all  the  flowers, 
What  to  do  with  primrose  hours  ! 

Sing  !  who  mingles  with  my  song  ? 
Soldier  in  the  battle  strong  ! 
Sing,  and  thee  I  '11  music  teach, 
Such  as  thunders  on  the  beach. 
When  the  waves  run  mad  and  white. 
Like  a  warrior  in  the  fight ! 

Sing !  who  loves  the  music  tender  ? 
Widow,  who  hath  no  defender  !  — 
Orphan  !  —  Scholar  !  —  Mother  wild. 
Who  hast  loved  (and  lost)  a  child  ! 
Maiden,  dreaming  of  to-morrow  ! 
Let  us  sing  and  banish  sorrow ! 
Come  !  —  Sweet  music  hath  a  smart. 
And  a  balm  for  every  heart ! 


SONGS-  81 

LXXV.  — I  LOVE  MY  LOVE,  BECAUSE  HE  LOVES  ME. 

SET  TO   MUSIC   BY   THB  CHEVALIER  NEUKOMX. 

Man,  man  loves  his  steed, 

For  its  blood  or  its  breed, 
For  its  odor  the  rose,  for  its  honey  the  bee, 

His  own  haughty  beauty 

From  pride  or  from  duty  ; 
But  /  love  my  love,  because  —  he  loves  me. 

O,  my  love  has  an  eye, 

Like  a  star  in  the  sky. 
And  breath  like  the  sweets  from  the  hawthorn  tree  ; 

And  his  heart  is  a  treasure. 

Whose  worth  is  past  measure ; 
And  yet  he  hath  given  all  —  all  to  me  ! 

It  crowns  me  with  light 

In  the  dead  of  the  night, 
It  brightens  my  journey  by  land  and  sea  ; 

And  thus,  while  I  wander, 

I  sigh  and  grow  fonder. 
For  my  love  ever  grows  with  his  love  for  me. 

Why  didst  thou  depart. 

Thou  sweet  bird  of  my  heart? 
O,  come  back  to  my  bosom,  and  never  flee : 

I  never  will  grieve  thee, 

I  '11  never  deceive  thee. 
But  love  thee  for  ever,  as  —  Ihou  lov'st  m£. 
6 


82  SONGS. 


LXXVL  — TALK  NOT  TO  ME  OF  LOVE. 


Talk  not  to  me  of  love  ! 

The  deer  that  dies 
Knows  more  of  love  than  I, 

Who  seek  the  skies. 
Strive  not  to  bind  my  soul 

With  chains  of  clay  ! 
I  scorn  thy  poor  control ; 

Away,  —  Away ! 

Now  wherefore  dost  thou  weave 

Thy  falsehoods  strange  ? 
Sad  words  may  make  me  grieve, 

But  never  change. 
A  snake  sleeps  in  thine  eye ; 

It  stirs  thine  heart : 
Why  dost  thou  vainly  sigh  ? 

Depart,  —  Depart ! 

Thy  dreams,  when  Fortune  flew, 

Did  elsewhere  range  : 
But  love  is  always  true. 

And  knows  no  change, 
More  firm  in  want,  in  strife, 

Ay,  firm  through  crime. 
He  looketh  down  on  life, 

The  star  of  Time  ! 


SONGS.  83 


LXXVII.  — MIRIAM. 

SET   TO   MOSIC    BY   THB   CHEVAUBR   NKUKOMM. 

(Recitative.) 

Darkness  and  God's  great  wrath  for  many  an  age 

Have  lain  on  Israel !     O  what  nights  of  woe  ! 

What  dreams  of  long  and  lonely  banishment ! 

Spring  Cometh  round,  and  Summer  sweet  returneth 

Still  to  our  father's  land  ;  —  But  where  are  We  ? 

Still  Siloa  murmurs  ;  but  we  hear  her  not ! 

Still  the  rose  opens,  and  the  lilies  pale 

Are  born  beneath  the  sun  :  but  we  have  lost 

All  suns,  all  seasons,  —  music,  —  fragrance,  —  flowers  ! 

Peace,  —  Darkness  hath  her  share  of  good,  like  day  : 

Sleep  and  the  world  of  dreams  belong  to  her ; 

And,  in  our  long,  dark  exile,  we  have  stars 

That  light  us  onwards,  and  their  beauty  shed 

Alone  upon  the  sons  of  Israel  ! 

Look,  —  where  one  shines ;  —  't  is  —  Miriam  !  Judah's 

child. 
Her  pride,  —  her  glory  !     Statelier  than  the  palm, 
Swift  as  the  roe,  dowered  with  love,  —  she  comes  ! 
And  thus  I  celebrate  her  grace  in  song ! 

(Mr.) 

O,  fairer  than  the  fairest  of  the  flowers ! 
O,  sweeter  than  the  bud  when  it  blows  ! 


84  SONGS. 

O,  brighter  than  the  Summer  when  it  showers 
Its  riches  on  the  red,  red  rose  ! 

Come,  —  Shew  vs  that  the  color  of  the  sky 
Still  lives  in  the  Hebrew'' s  eye, 

Miriam  ! 

O,  shew  us  there  is  truth  in  thy  story  ; 

That  thy  country  is  worthy  of  her  fame  ! 
Reappear,  —  Uke  the  shadow  of  her  glory  ! 
Reappear,  —  like  the  Spirit  of  her  name  ! 
Come, —  Shew  us  all  the  starriness  that  lies 
In  the  night  of  the  Hebrew''s  eyes, 
Miriam  I 

Look  !     Look !  where  a  Spirit,  like  the  lightning, 

Comes  flashing  from  her  dark,  deep  gaze  ! 
Is  the  tempest  e'er  more  terrible  or  blighting,  in 
The  strength  of  its  storm-bright  days  ? 

Quick  !  —  Shew  us  all  the  terror  that  may  lie 
In  the  flash  of  a  Hebrew''s  eye, 

Miriam  ! 
Our  pride,  our  glory,  —  Miriam  ! 


SONGS.  85 


LXXVm.-BABYLOX. 


SBT   TO   MUSIC   BY    MR.    H.    PH1U.IPS. 


(Recitative.) 

Pause  in  this  desert !     Here,  men  say,  of  old 
Belshazzar  reigned,  and  drank  from  cups  of  gold  ; 
Here,  to  his  hideous  idols,  bowed  the  slave. 
And  here  —  God  struck  him  dead  ! 

Where  lies  his  grave  ? 
'T  is  lost !  —  His  brazen  gates  ?  his  soaring  towers, 
From  whose  dark  tops  men  watched  the  starry  hours  ? 
All  to  the  dust  gone  down !     The  desert  bare 
Scarce  yields  an  echo  when  we  question  "  Where  ?  " 
The  lonely  herdsman  seeks  in  vain  the  spot ; 
And  the  black  wandering  Arab  knows  it  not. 
No  brick,  nor  fragment  lingereth  now,  to  tell 
Where  Babylon  (mighty  city  !)  rose  —  and  fell ! 

{Mr.) 

O  City,  vast  and  old ! 

Where,  where  is  thy  grandeur  fled  ? 
The  stream  that  around  thee  rolled 
Still  rolls  in  its  ancient  bed  ! 

But  ichere,  0,  where  art  Thou  gone  ) 
0  Babylon  !  0  Babylon  ! 

The  Giant,  when  he  dies. 

Still  leaveth  his  bones  behind, 


86^  SONGS, 

To  shrink  in  the  winder  skies, 
And  whiten  beneath  the  wind  ! 

But  where,  0,  where  art  Thov  gone  ? 
0  Babylon  !  0  Babylon  ! 

Thou  liv'st !  —  for  thy  name  still  glows, 

A  light  in  the  desert  skies ; 
As  the  fame  of  the  hero  grows 

Thrice  trebled  because  he  dies  ! 
0  Babylon  !  O  Babylon  ! 


LXXIX  —HER  LARGE,  DAEK,  LUMINOUS  EYES  ARE  ON  ME. 

Her  large,  dark,  luminous  eyes  are  on  me  ! 

I  cannot  fly,  —  I  cannot  move  ! 
The  beauty  that  in  boyhood  won  me 

Wins  me  still,  —  to  look  and  love  ! 

The  tongue  that  wound  its  music  'round  me. 
And  might  have  charmed  aside  all  pain, 

Again  all  bare  and  weak  hath  found  me, 
And  stings  me,  to  the  heart,  again  ! 

O  Beauty,  who  my  soul  subdueth  ! 

What  mean  the  lightnings  of  thine  eye  ? 
Why  is  it  that  thy  scorn  pursueth 

My  love,  —  yet  leaves  it  not  to  die  ? 

Sweet  Music,  cease  !     Bright  Eyes,  all  beaming 
VVith  light  that  makes  me  mad,  —  ah,  close  ! 

Give  back  my  colder,  calmer  dreaming  ! 
Give  back  my  dull,  dark,  old  repose ! 


SONGS.  87 


LXXX.— THE  REMONSTRANCE. 

Thou  'lt  take  me  with  thee,  my  love,  my  love  ? 
Wherever  thou  'rt  forced  by  fate  to  move  ? 
Over  the  land,  or  over  the  sea  ?  — 
Thou  know'st't  is  the  same  delight  to  me. 
What  say'st  thou,  dear  ? 
Thy  bride  is  here. 
All  ready  to  live  and  die  with  thee. 

Her  heart  teas  in  the  song  ; 
It  murmured  in  the  measure  ; 
It  touched  the  music,  all  along. 
With  a  grave,  sweet  pleasure. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  me  behind,  behind, 
To  the  malice  of  fortune,  harsh  and  blind  ? 
I  '11  follow  thy  call,  as  a  bird  would  flee. 
And  sing  or  be  mute  as  thou  biddest  me. 
What  say'st  thou,  dear. 
To  my  fond,  fond  fear  ? 
Thou  canst  not  banish  thy  love  from  thee  ! 

Her  heart  was  in  the  song ; 
It  murmured  in  the  measure  ; 
It  touched  the  music,  all  along, 
With  a  grave,  sweet  pleasure. 

What  say'st  thou,  my  soldier,  my  love,  my  pride  ? 
Thy  answer  ?     What,  was  I  not  born  thy  bride .' 
From  my  cradle  e'er  cherished  for  love  and  thee, 
And  dar'st  thou  now  banish  or  bid  me  flee  ? 


88  SONGS. 

Smil'st  thou  at  my  fear  ? 
Ah,  then,  my  dear, 
I  know  I  may  love  —  live  —  die  with  thee  ! 

Her  heart  was  in  the  song ; 
It  murmured  in  the  measure  ; 
It  touched  the  music,  all  along, 
With  a  grave,  sweet  pleasure. 


LXXXI.— KILL  THE  LOVE  THAT  WINDS  AROUND  THEE. 

Kill  the  love  that  winds  around  thee 

With  its  snake-like,  death-like  twine  ! 
Where  's  the  guardian  steel  that  bound  thee  ? 

Where  are  all  thy  gifts  divine  ? 
Where  is  wisdom  ?     Where  is  wine  ? 

Where  's  the  sad,  dark  truth  of  story  ? 
Where  the  Muse's  mighty  line  ? 

Where  the  fame  that  burned  before  thee  ? 

What  is  love,  but  life  deformed 

From  its  grand  original  aim  ? 
Hero  into  slave  transformed  ? 

Worlds  lost  at  a  single  game  ? 
Whose  the  peril,  —  whose  the  shame, 

Shouldst  thou  die  in  love's  fond  slavery  ? 
Rise  !     Earth  's  nought  without  its  fame  ! 

Rise  !     Life  's  nought  without  its  bravery  ! 


SONGS.  89 


LXXXIL— WHAT  SAY  THE  CLOUDS  ON  THE  HH^L  AND  PLAIN? 

What  say  the  clouds  on  the  hill  and  plain  ? 

"  We  come,  we  go." 
What  say  the  springs  of  the  dreaming  brain  ? 

"  We  shrink,  we  flow." 
What  say  the  maids  in  tlieir  changeful  hours  ? 

"  We  laugh,  we  cry." 
What  say  the  budding  and  fading  flowers  ? 
"  We  live,  we  die." 

And  thus  all  things  go  ranging^ 

From  riddle  to  riddle  changing, 

From  day  into  night,  from  life  into  death, 

And  no  one  knows  why,  my  song  saith. 

A  fable  is  good,  and  a  truth  is  good. 

And  loss,  and  gain  ; 
And  the  ebb  and  the  flood,  and  the  black  pine  wood. 

And  the  vast,  bare  plain  ; 
To  wake  and  to  sleep,  and  to  dream  of  the  deep, 

Are  good,  say  I ; 
And  't  is  good  to  laugh  and  't  is  good  to  weep ; 

But  who  knows  why  } 

Yet  thus  all  things  go  ranging,  8fC. 

We  cumber  the  earth  for  a  hundred  years  ; 

We  learn,  we  teach  ; 
We  fight  amidst  perils,  and  hopes,  and  fears, 

Fame's  rock  to  reach. 


90  SONGS. 

We  boast  that  our  fellows  are  sages  wrought 

In  toil  and  pain  ; 
Yet  the  common  lesson  by  Nature  taught 

Doth  vex  their  brain  ! 

0,  all  things  here  go  ranging^  8^c. 

LXXXIIL— A  DILEMMA. 

Which  is  the  maiden  I  love  best  ? 

Twenty  now  are  buzzing  round  me  ; 

Three  in  their  milk-white  arms  have  wound  me, 

Gently,  —  yet  I  feel  no  rest ! 

One  hath  showered  her  black  locks  o'er  me, 

Ten  kneel  on  the  ground  before  me. 

Casting  forth  such  beams  of  blue, 

That  I  'm  pierced,  —  O,  through  and  through  ! 

Bacchus  !    Gods  !    what  can  I  do  ? 

Which  must  I  love  best  ? 

Tell  me  —  (ah,  more  gently  take  me. 
Sweet  one,  in  thy  warm  white  arms  !) 
Tell  me,  which  will  ne'er  forsake  me 
Thorough  all  life's  ills  and  harms  ? 
Is  it  sAe,  whose  blood  's  retreating 

From  that  forehead  crowned  with  pride  ? 
Is  it  she^  whose  pulse  is  beating 

Full  against  my  unarmed  side  ? 

What  do  all  these  things  betide  ? 
Strong  my  doubts  grow,  —  strong, — and  stronger: 

Quick  !  give  answer  to  my  call ! 
If  ye  pause  a  moment  longer, 

I  shall  love  ye  —  All  ! 


SONGS. 
LXXXIV.— THE  BEGGAR'S  SONG. 

I  AM  a  merry  beggar, 

A  beggar  I  was  born, 
Tossed  about  the  wild  world, 

From  evening  till  morn  ; 
A  plaything  of  the  tempest, 

A  brother  of  the  night, 
A  conqueror,  a  conjurer. 

When  't  is  merry  star-light ! 

O,  nothing  can  withstand  me, 

Whenever  I  do  stoop. 
From  the  warm  heart  of  the  housewife 

To  the  chicken  in  the  coop ; 
From  the  linen  of  the  lady 

To  the  larder  of  the  knight, 
All  come  when  I  do  conjure, 

In  the  merry  star-light ! 

I  pay  no  tithes  to  parson. 

Though  I  follow  like  his  clerk ; 
For  he  takes  his  tenths  by  daylight, 

I  take  mine  in  the  dark. 
I  pay  the  king  no  window-tax ; 

From  some  it  may  be  right, 
But  all  I  do  beneath  the  blue 

Is  by  merry  star-light ! 

I  roam  from  lane  to  common. 

From  city  unto  town, 
And  I  tell  a  merry  story. 

To  gentleman  or  clown : 


91 


92  SONGS. 

Each  gives  me  bed  or  victuals, 
Or  ale  that  glitters  bright, 

Or  —  I  contrive  to  borrow  them 
By  merry  star-light ! 

O,  the  tradesman  he  is  rich,  Sirs, 

The  farmer  well  to  pass, 
The  soldier  he  's  a  lion, 

The  alderman  's  an  ass  ; 
The  courtier  he  is  subtle.  Sirs, 

And  the  scholar  he  is  bright ; 
But  who,  like  me,  is  ever  free 

In  the  merry  star-light  ? 

LXXXV.— TO   SOPHIE. 

Wilt  thou  be  a  nun,  Sophie  ? 

Nothing  but  a  nun  ? 
Is  it  not  a  better  thing 
With  thy  friends  to  laugh  and  sing  ? 
To  be  loved  and  sought  ? 

To  be  wooed  and  —  won  ? 
Dost  thou  love  the  shadow,  Sophie, 

Better  than  the  sun  ? 

I  'm  a  poor  lay -brother,  Sophie ; 

Yet,  I  this  may  say,  — 
Thou  hadst  better  bear  with  love. 
Than  dwell  here,  a  prisoned  dove, 

Weeping  life  away, 
O,  —  I'd  bear  love's  pangs,  rather, 

Fifty  times  a  day ! 


SONGS.  93 


LXXXVI.  — BUILD  UP  A  COLUMN  TO  BOLIVAR! 

Build  up  a  column  to  Bolivar! 
Build  it  under  a  tropic  star  ! 
Build  it  high  as  his  mounting  fame  ! 
Crown  its  head  with  his  noble  name  ! 
Let  the  letters  tell,  like  a  light  afar, 
"  This  is  the  column  of  Bolivar  !  " 

Soldier  in  war,  in  peace  a  man, 
Did  he  not  all  that  a  hero  can  ? 
Wasting  his  life  for  his  country's  care, 
Laying  it  down  with  a  patriot  prayer, 
Shedding  his  blood  like  the  summer  rain, 
Loving  the  land,  though  he  loved  in  vain ! 

Man  is  a  creature,  good  or  ill, 
Jjittle  or  great,  at  his  own  strong  will  ; 
And  he  grew  good,  and  wise,  and  great. 
Albeit  he  fought  with  a  tyrant  fate. 
And  showered  his  golden  gifts  on  men 
Who  paid  him  in  basest  wrongs  again  ! 

Raise  the  column  to  Bolivar ! 
Firm  in  peace,  and  fierce  in  war ! 
Shout  forth  his  noble,  noble  name  ! 
Shout  till  his  enemies  die,  in  shame  ! 
Shout  till  Columbia's  woods  awaken. 
Like  seas  by  a  mighty  tempest  shaken,  — 


94  SONGS. 

Till  pity,  and  praise,  and  great  disdain, 
Sound  like  an  Indian  hurricane  ! 
Shout,  as  ye  shout  in  conquering  war, 
While  ye  build  the  column  to  Bolivar ! 

LXXXVII.— THE  FAREWELL  OF  THE  SOLDIER. 

I  LOVE  thee,  I  love  thee, 
Far  better  than  wine, 

But  the  curse  is  above  me ; 
Thou  'It  never  be  mine  ! 

As  the  blade  wears  the  scabbard, 
The  billow  the  shore. 

So  sorrow  doth  fret  me 
For  evermore. 

Fair  beauty,  I  leave  thee, 
To  conquer  my  heart : 

I  '11  see  thee,  I  '11  bless  thee. 
And  then  —  depart. 

Let  me  take,  ere  I  vanish, 
One  look  of  thine  eyes, — 

One  smile  for  remembrance. 
For  life  soon  flies  ! 

And  now  for  the  fortune 
That  hangeth  above  ; 

And  to  bury  in  battle 
My  dream  of  love  ! 


SONGS.  95 


LXXXVrn.— THE  NIGHTSHADE. 

Tread  aside  from  my  starry  bloom ! 
I  am  the  nurse,  who  feed  the  tomb 

(The  tomb,  my  child) 

With  dainties  piled, 
Until  it  grows  strong  as  a  tempest  wild. 

Trample  not  on  a  virgin  flower ! 

I  am  the  maid  of  the  midnight  hour ; 

I  bear  sweet  sleep 

To  those  who  weep. 
And  lie  on  their  eyelids  dark  and  deep. 

Tread  not  thou  on  my  snaky  eyes ! 
I  am  the  worm  that  the  weary  prize. 

The  Nile's  soft  asp. 

That  they  strive  to  grasp. 
And  one  that  a  queen  has  loved  to  clasp  ! 

Pity  me  !     I  am  she  whom  man 

Hath  hated  since  ever  the  world  began  ; 

I  soothe  his  brain 

In  the  night  of  pain, 
But  at  morning  he  waketh,  —  and  all  is  vain  ! 


96  SONGS. 


LXXXIX.  — TRUE  LOVE. 


Is  't  true  the  false,  poor  beauty  flies 

From  thee  ?     O,  't  is  well,  —  't  is  right ! 
My  lovp  shall  now  adorn  thine  eyes 

With  brightness  like  the  unclouded  night ! 
The  poet  sheds,  on  herb  and  flower. 

His  fancies,  till  they  breathe  and  shine ; 
And  shall  J,  in  thy  drooping  hour, 
Neglect  to  hallow  aught  of  thine  ? 
Love  should  Jiow  alongy 

Singing  like  a  gentle  river, 
Its  saddest  still  its  sweetest  song, 
For  ever,  — for  ever  ! 

Come  to  me,  —  dearer,  fairer  far, 

Than  when  men's  smiles  did  round  thee  fawn ! 
Look  on  me,  —  as  the  last  pale  star 

Looks  round  upon  the  glowing  dawn  ! 
Yet,  fly  not !     Stay,  and  smile,  sweet  heart, 

On  whatever  chance  may  now  befall ; 
My  love,  though  every  good  depart, 
Shall  make  thee  dear  amends  for  all ! 
True  love  reigns  on  high. 

Like  the  constant  stars,  that  quiver. 
And  look  bright  from  every  sky. 
For  ever,  — for  ever  ! 


SONGS.  97 


XC  — SONG  OF  THE  OUTCAST. 

I  WAS  born  on  a  winter's  morn, 

Welcomed  to  life  with  hate  and  scorn. 

Torn  from  a  famished  mother's  side, 

Who  left  me  here,  with  a  laugh,  and  —  died  ; 

Left  me  here,  with  the  curse  of  life, 

To  be  tossed  about  in  the  burning  strife, 

Linked  to  nothing,  but  shame  and  pain, 

Echoing  nothing,  but  man's  disdain  ; 

O,  that  I  might  again  be  born. 

With  treble  my  strength  of  hate  and  scorn  ! 

I  was  born  by  a  sudden  shock,  — 
Born  by  the  blow  of  a  ruffian  sire, 
Given  to  air,  as  the  blasted  rock 
Gives  out  the  reddening,  roaring  fire. 
My  sire  was  stone  ;  but  my  dark  blood 
Ran  its  round  like  a  fiery  flood. 
Rushing  through  every  tingling  vein. 
And  flaming  ever  at  man's  disdain  ; 
Ready  to  give  back,  night  or  morn, 
Hate  for  hate,  and  scorn  for  scorn  ! 

They  cast  me  out,  in  my  hungry  need, 
(A  dog,  whom  none  would  own  nor  feed,) 
Whhout  a  home,  without  a  meal, 
And  bade  me  go  forth  —  to  slay  and  steal ! 
7 


98  SONGS. 

What  wonder,  God  !  had  my  hands  been  red 
With  the  blood  of  a  host  in  secret  shed  ! 
But  no  !  I  fought  on  the  free  sea-wave, 
And  perilled  my  life  for  my  plunder  brave, 
And  never  yet  shrank,  in  nerve  or  breath. 
But  struck,  as  the  pirate  strikes,  —  to  death  ! 

XCI.— TO  A  FLOWER. 

Dawn,  gentle  flower, 

From  the  morning  earth  I 

We  will  gaze  and  wonder 
At  thy  wondrous  birth  ! 

Bloom,  gentle  flower ! 

Lover  of  the  light, 
Sought  by  wind  and  shower, 

Fondled  by  the  night ! 

Fade,  gentle  flower ! 

All  thy  white  leaves  close  ; 
Having  shewn  thy  beauty. 
Time  't  is  for  repose. 

Die,  gentle  flower, 

In  the  silent  sun  ! 
So,  —  all  pangs  are  over, 

All  thy  tasks  are  done  ! 

Day  hath  no  more  glory. 
Though  he  soars  so  high  ; 

Thine  is  all  man's  story. 

Live,  —  and  love,  —  and  die  ! 


SONGS.  99 


XCII.— FORBIDDEN  LOVE. 

I  LOVE  thee  !  — O,  the  strife,  the  pain, 

The  fiery  thoughts  that  through  me  roll ! 
I  love  thee  !     Look,  —  again,  again  ! 

O  Stars  !  that  thou  couldst  read  my  soul. 
I  would  thy  bright,  bright  eye  could  pierce 

The  crimson  folds  that  hide  my  heart, 
Then  wouldst  thou  find  the  serpent  fierce, 

That  stings  me  —  and  will  not  depart ! 

Look  love  upon  me  with  thine  eyes ! 

Yet,  no, —  men's  evil  tongues  are  nigh  : 
Look  pity,  then,  and  with  thy  sighs 

Waste  music  on  me  —  till  I  die  ! 
Yet,  —  love  not !  sigh  not !     Turn  (thou  mtist) 

Thy  beauty  from  me,  sweet  and  kind  ; 
'T  is  fit  that  I  should  burn  to  dust. 

To  death,  because  —  I  am  not  blind  ! 

I  love  thee,  — and  I  live  !     The  Moon 

Who  sees  me  from  her  calm  above, 
The  Wind  who  weaves  her  dim  soft  tune 

About  me,  know  how  much  I  love  ! 
Nought  else,  save  Night  and  the  lonely  Hour, 

E'er  heard  my  passion  wild  and  strong : 
Even  thou  yet  deem'st  not  of  thy  power. 

Unless  —  thou  read'st  aright  my  song  ! 


100  SONGS. 


Xan.-A  BRIDAL  DIRGE. 

Weave  no  more  the  marriage  chain  ! 

All  unmated  is  the  lover  ; 
Death  has  ta'en  the  place  of  Pain ; 
Love  doth  call  on  love  in  vain  : 

Life  and  years  of  hope  are  over ! 

No  more  want  of  marriage  bell ! 

No  more  need  of  bridal  favor ! 
Where  is  she  to  wear  them  well  ? 
You  beside  the  lover  tell ! 

Gone  —  with  all  the  love  he  gave  her  ! 

Paler  than  the  stone  she  lies  : 

Colder  than  the  winter's  morning  ! 

Wherefore  did  she  thus  despise 

(She  with  pity  in  her  eyes) 

Mother's  care,  and  lover's  warning  ? 

Youth  and  beauty,  —  shall  they  not 
Last  beyond  a  brief  to-morrow  ? 

No  :  a  prayer  and  then  forgot ! 

This  the  truest  lover's  lot ; 

This  the  sum  of  human  sorrow  ! 


SONGS.  101 


XCIV.— THE  CONVICT'S  FAREWELL. 


A  Boat  is  rowed  along  the  sea, 

Full  of  souls  as  it  may  be  ; 

Their  dress  is  coarse,  their  hair  is  shorrf. 

And  every  squalid  face  forlorn 

Is  full  of  sorrow,  and  hate,  and  scorn  ! 

What  is  't  ?  —  It  is  the  Convict  Boat, 

That  o'er  the  waves  is  forced  to  float. 

Bearing  its  wicked  burden  o'er 

The  ocean,  to  a  distant  shore  : 

Man  scowls  upon  it ;  but  the  sea 

(The  same  with  fettered  as  with  free) 

Danceth  beneath  it  heedlessly  ! 

Slowly  the  boat  is  borne  along  ; 

Yet  they  who  row  are  hard  and  strong, 

And  well  their  oars  keep  time 
To  one  who  sings  (and  clanks  his  chain, 
The  better  thus  to  hide  his  pain) 

A  bitter,  banished  rhyme  ! 
He  sings :  and  all  his  mates  in  woe 
Chaunt  sullen  chorus  as  they  go  ! 


102  SONGS. 


SONG 


Row  US  on,  a  felon  band, 

Farther  out  to  sea. 
Till  we  lose  eJI  sight  of  land. 

And  then  —  we  shall  be  free  ! 
Row  us  on,  and  loose  our  fetters  ; 

Yeo  !  the  boat  makes  way : 
Let 's  say  "  Good  bye  "  unto  our  betters, 

And,  hey  for  a  brighter  day  ! 

c  H  o  EU  s. 

RoiD  us  fast !  Row  us  fast  ! 

Trial 's  o^er  and  sentence  past  : 

Here  's  a  whistle  for  those  who  tried  to  blind  «s, 

And  a  curse  on  all  we  leave  behind  us  ! 

Farewell,  juries,  —  jailors,  —  friends, 

(Traitors  to  the  close  !) 
Here  the  felon's  danger  ends. 

Farewell,  bloody  foes  ! 
Farewell,  England  !     We  are  quilting 

Now  thy  dungeon  doors: 
Take  our  blessing,  as  we  're  flitting,  — 

"  A  curse  upon  thy  shores  ! " 

Farewell,  England,  —  honest  nurse 
Of  all  our  wants  and  sins  ! 


SONGS,  103 

What  to  thee  's  the  felon's  curse  ? 

What  to  thee  who  wins  ? 
Murder  thriveth  in  thy  cities, 

Famine  through  thine  isle  : 
One  may  cause  a  dozen  ditties, 

But  t'  other  scarce  a  smile. 

Farewell,  England,  —  tender  soil. 

Where  babes  who  leave  the  breast 
From  morning  into  midnight  toil. 

That  pride  may  be  proudly  drest ! 
Where  he  who  's  right  and  he  who  swerveth 

Meet  at  the  goal  the  same  ; 
Where  no  one  hath  what  he  deserveth, 

Not  even  in  empty  fame  ! 

So,  fare  thee  well,  our  country  dear  ! 

Our  last  wish,  ere  we  go. 
Is,  —  May  your  heart  be  never  clear 

From  tax,  nor  tithe,  nor  woe  ! 
May  they  who  sow  e'er  reap  for  others. 

The  hundred  for  the  one  ! 
May  friends  grow  false,  and  twin-bom  brothers 

Each  hate  his  Mother's  son  ! 

May  pains  and  forms  still  fence  the  place 

Where  justice  must  be  bought  ! 
So  he  who  's  poor  must  hide  his  face, 

And  he  who  thinks  —  his  thought ! 


104 


May  Might  o'er  Right  be  crowned  the  winner, 

The  head  still  o'er  the  heart, 
And  the  Saint  be  still  so  like  the  Sinner, 

You  '11  not  know  them  apart ! 

May  your  traders  grumble  when  bread  is  high, 

And  your  farmers  when  bread  is  low, 
And  your  pauper  brats,  scarce  two  feet  high. 

Learn  more  than  your  nobles  know  ! 
May  your  sick  have  foggy  or  frosty  weather. 

And  your  convicts  all  short  throats. 
And  your  blood-covered  bankers  e'er  hang  together, 

And  tempt  ye  with  one  pound  notes  ! 

And  so,  —  v/ith  hunger  in  your  jaws, 

And  peril  within  your  breast. 
And  a  bar  of  gold  to  guard  your  laws. 

For  those  who  pay  the  best ; 
Farewell  to  England's  woe  and  weal  ! 

.     .     For  our  betters,  so  bold  and  blythe, 
May  they  never  want,  when  they  want  a  meal, 

A  Parson  to  take  their  Tithe  ! 


SONGS.  105 


XCV— THE  RHIXR 


We  've  sailed  through  banks  of  green, 

Where  the  wild  waves  fret  and  quiver, 
And  we  've  down  the  Danube  been. 

The  dark,  deep,  thundering  river ! 
We  've  threaded  the  Elbe  and  Rhone, 

The  Tyber  and  blood-died  Seine, 
And  have  watched  where  the  blue  Garonne 

Goes  laughing  to  meet  the  main  : 

But  what  is  so  loveli/,  what  is  so  grand^ 
As  the  river  thai  runs  through  Rhine-land  ? 

On  the  Rhine-river  were  we  born, 

'Midst  its  flowers  and  famous  wines, 
And  we  know  that  our  country's  mom 

With  a  treble-sweet  aspect  shines. 
Let  other  lands  boast  their  flowers, 

Let  other  men  dream  wild  dreams, 
Let  them  hope  they  've  a  land  like  ours, 

And  a  stream  like  our  stream  of  streams : 
Yet,  what  is  half  so  bright  or  so  grand, 
As  the  river  that  ru7is  through  Rhine-land  7 

Are  we  smit  by  the  blinding  sun. 

That  fell  on  our  tender  youth  ? 
Do  we  coward-like  shrink  and  shun 

The  thought-telling  touch  of  Truth  ? 


106  SONGS. 

On  our  heads  be  the  sin,  then,  set ! 
We  '11  bear  all  the  shame  divine : 
But  we  'II  never  disown  the  debt 
That  we  owe  to  our  noble  Rhine  ! 

O  the  Rhine  !  the  Rhine  !  the  broad  and  the  grand. 
Is  the  river  that  runs  through  Rhine-land  ! 


XC VI.  — SWEET  FRIEND,  WHERE  SLEEPS  THY  SONG? 

Sweet  friend  !  where  sleeps  thy  song  ? 
Ah,  wherefore  hath  it  lain  so  long 

In  idle  slumbers  ? 
Quick  thou,  the  ancient  bondage  break, 
And  bid  its  dreaming  soul  awake 

In  airy  numbers  ! 

Bid  it  burst  forth,  like  Spring, 

When  first  the  youthful  rivers  sing,  — 

The  small,  bright  river. 
That  runneth  laughing  from  the  earth, 
And  thinketh,  in  its  new-born  mirth, 

To  live  for  ever ! 

Bid  it  come  forth,  like  Spring, 

When  brooks  and  trees  their  music  bring. 

And  fields  their  flowers  ; 
And  we  will  hearken  all,  and  ho£ird 
Thy  sweet,  sweet  thoughts,  like  riches  stored, 

For  after  hours ! 


SONGS.  107 


XCVII.  — THE  HIRLAS  HORN. 

Fill  high,  fill  high  the  Hirlas  horn, 

Rimmed,  with  sunlight,  like  the  morn  ! 

Deep,  and  vast,  and  fit  to  drown 

All  the  troubles  of  a  crown  ; 

Deep,  and  vast,  and  crowned  with  mead, 

'T  is  a  cup  for  kings  indeed, 

Full  of  courage,  full  of  worth, 

Mciking  man  a  god  on  earth  ! 

Warriors,  Heroes,  Cambrian-horn, 
Drink,  — from  the  Hirlas  horn  ! 

Hide  with  foam  the  golden  tip  ; 

Make  it  rich  for  a  prince's  lip  ! 

Here  's  to  the  fame  of  Roderick  dead  ! 

Bards  !  why  do  your  harps  not  shed 

Music  ?     Come,  —  a  mighty  draught 

To  dead  Roderick's  name  be  quaffed  ! 

Tell  us  all  the  hero  won, 

All  he  did,  from  sun  to  sun  ! 

Bards,  and  Heroes,  Cambrian-horn^ 
Drink,  — from  the  Hirlas  horn  ! 

Fill  the  horn  to  Madoc's  name, 
First  in  the  mighty  race  of  fame, 
Eagle-hearted,  eagled-eyed. 
All  hearts  shuddered  when  he  died  ! 
Yet,  why  so  ?  for  Tudor  rose 
Like  a  lion  upon  our  foes ;  — 


108  SONGS. 

Like  the  wild,  storm-smitten  ocean, 
When  he  puts  his  strength  in  motion  ! 

Come,  brave  Spirits,  Cambrian-born, 
Drink,  — from  the  Hirlas  horn  ! 

Cambrian  people  —  Cambrian  mountains. 

Back  into  your  wizard  fountains 
'   (Where  the  Druid  seers  are  dwelling) 

Shout  unto  the  crowned  Llewellin  ! 

Patriot !     Hero !     Monarch  !     Friend ! 

Wreathed  with  virtues  without  end  ! 

First  of  men  'tween  Earth  and  Sky  ! 

The  sword  and  the  shield  of  Liberty  ! 
Drink,  all  Spirits,  Cambrian-born, 
Drink  to  the  good,  great  crowned  Llewellin  ? 
Drink,  — from  the  Hirlas  horn  ! 

XC VIII.  —  COME !  LET  US  GO  TO  THE  LAND. 

SET  TO   MnSIC    BY    SIONOR   VERINI. 

Come,  —  let  us  go  to  the  land 

Where  the  violets  grow  ! 
Let 's  go  thither,  hand  in  hand, 

Over  the  waters,  over  the  snow, 

To  the  land  where  the  sweet,  sweet  violets  blow  ! 

There,  —  in  the  beautiful  South, 
Where  the  sweet  flowers  lie. 

Thou  shalt  sing,  with  thy  sweeter  mouth, 
Under  the  light  of  the  evening  sky. 
That  Love  never  fades,  though  violets  die  ! 


SONGS.  109 


XCLX  -THE  LEVELLER. 

The  king  he  reigns  on  a  throne  of  gold, 

Fenced  round  by  his  "  power  divine  "  ; 
The  baron  he  sits  in  his  castle  old, 

Drinking  his  ripe  red  wine  : 
But  below,  below,  in  his  ragged  coat. 
The  beggar  he  tuneth  a  hungry  note. 
And  the  spinner  is  bound  to  his  weary  thread, 
And  the  debtor  lies  down  with  an  aching  head. 

So  the  world  goes  ! 

So  the  stream  Jloics  ! 

Yet  there  is  a  fellow,  rchom  nobody  knows. 

Who  maketh  all  free 

On  land  and  sea. 

And  forceth  the  rich  like  the  poor  to  fee  ! 

The  lady  lies  down  in  her  warm,  white  lawn. 

And  dreams  of  her  pearled  pride  ; 
The  milkmaid  sings,  to  the  wild-eyed  dawn. 

Sad  songs  on  the  cold  hill-side  : 
And  the  Saint  he  leaves  (while  he  prattles  of  faith) 
Good  deeds  to  the  sinner,  as  scandal  saith. 
And  the  scholar  he  bows  to  the  face  of  brass, 
And  the  wise  man  he  worships  the  golden  ass  ! 
So  the  world  goes,  Sfc. 


110  SONGS. 


C— THE  SECRET  OF  SINGING. 

Lady,  sing  no  more  ! 

Silence  all  is  vain, 
Till  the  heart  be  touched,  lady. 

And  give  forth  its  pain. 

'T  is  a  hidden  lyre, 
Cherished  near  the  sun, 

O'er  whose  witching  wire,  lady, 
Faery  fingers  run. 

Pity  comes  in  tears, 
From  her  home  above, 

Hope  and  sometimes  Fears,  lady, 
And  the  wizard,  —  Love  ! 

Each  doth  search  the  heart, 

To  its  utmost  springs. 
And  when  they  depart,  lady. 

Then  the  Spirit  sings  ! 


SONGS,  &c. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 


PART   THE   THIRD. 


CI.— THE  FIGHT  OF  RAVENXA. 

He  is  bound  for  the  wars. 

He  is  armed  for  the  fight, 
With  lion-like  sinews, 

And  the  heart  of  a  knight ; 
All  hidden  in  steel, 

Like  the  sun  in  a  cloud. 
And  he  calls  for  his  charger, 

Who  neigheth  aloud ; 
And  he  calls  for  his  page, 

Who  comes  forth  like  the  light ; 
And  they  mount  and  ride  off. 

For  the  Brescian  fight. 
8 


114  SONGS. 

Count  Gaston  de  Foix 

Ts  the  heir  of  Narbonne, 
But  his  page  is  an  orphan, 

Known,  —  Hnked  unto  none  ; 
The  master  is  young. 

But  as  bold  as  the  blast ; 
The  servant  all  tender, — 

Too  tender  to  last ; 
A  bud  that  was  born 

For  the  summer-soft  skies, 
But,  left  to  wild  winter, 

Unfoldeth,  and  dies ! 

"  Come  forward,  my  young  one, 

Ride  on  by  my  side  ; 
What,  child,  wilt  thou  quell 

The  Castilian  pride  ?  " 
Thus  speaks  the  gay  soldier, 

His  heart  in  his  smile. 
But  his  page  blushes  deep,  — 

Was  it  anger  ?  —  the  while. 
Was  it  anger  ?     Ah,  no : 

For  the  tender  dark  eye 
Saith,  —  "Master,  for  thee 

I  will  live,  I  will  die  !  " 

They  speed  to  the  field. 
Storm-swift  in  their  flight, 


SONGS.  115 


And  Brescia  falleth, 

Like  fruit  in  a  blight ; 
Scarce  a  blow  for  a  battle, 

A  shout  for  her  fame  ; 
All  's  lost,  —  given  up 

To  the  sound  of  a  name  ! 
But  Ravenna  hath  soldiers 

Whose  hearts  are  more  bold, 
Whose  wine  is  all  Spanish, 

Whose  pay  is  all  gold. 

So  he  turns,  with  a  laugh 

Of  contempt  for  his  foe, 
And  now  girdeth  his  sword 

For  a  weightier  blow. 
Straight  forward  he  rideth 

Till  night 's  in  the  sky, 
When  the  page  and  the  meister 

Together  must  lie. 
Where  loiters  the  page  ? 

Ha  !  he  hangeth  his  head. 
And  with  forehead  like  fire 

He  shunneth  the  bed. 

"  Now  rest  thee,  my  weary  one  ; 

Drown  thee  in  sleep ! 
The  great  sun  himself 

Lieth  down  in  the  deep  ; 


116  SONGS. 

The  beast  on  his  pasture, 

The  bird  on  his  bough, 
The  lord  and  the  servant 

Are  slumberers  now." 
"  I  am  wont,"  sighed  the  page, 

"  A  long  watching  to  keep  ; 
But  my  lord  shall  lie  down 

While  I  charm  him  to  sleep." 

Soon  (cased  in  his  armor) 

Down  lieth  the  knight, 
And  the  page  he  is  tuning 

His  cittern  aright. 
At  last,  through  a  voice 

That  is  tender  and  low. 
The  melody  mourns 

Like  a  stream  at  its  flow, — 
Sad,  gentle,  uncertain, 

As  the  life  of  a  dream ; 
And  thus  the  page  singeth, 

With  love  for  his  theme  :  — 

SONG. 

1. 

There  lived  a  lady,  long  ago ; 

Her  heart  was  sad  and  dark,  —  ah,  me  ! 
Dark  with  a  single  secret  woe, 

That  none  could  ever  see ! 


SONGS.  1 17 

2. 

She  left  her  home,  she  lost  her  pride, 
Forgot  the  jeering  world,  —  ah,  me  ! 

And  followed  a  knight,  and  fought,  and  died. 
All  for  the  love  of —  chivalry  ! 

3. 

She  died,  —  and  when  in  her  last  dull  sleep 
She  lay  all  pale  and  cold,  —  ah,  me  ! 

They  read  of  a  love  as  wild  and  deep 
As  the  dark,  deep  sea ! 

The  song 's  at  an  end ! 

But  the  singer,  so  young. 
Still  weeps  at  the  music 

That  fell  from  his  tongue  : 
His  hands  are  enclasped  ; 

His  cheeks  are  on  fire  ; 
And  his  black  locks,  unloosened, 

Lie  mixed  with  the  wire  : 
But  his  lord  —  he  reposes 

As  calm  as  the  night. 
Until  dawn  cometh  forth 

With  her  summons  of  light : 

Then  —  onwards  they  ride 

Under  clouds  of  the  vine  ; 
Now  silent,  now  singing 

Old  stories  divine  ; 
Now  resting  awhile. 

Near  the  cool  of  a  stream. 


1 18  SONGS. 

Now  wild  for  the  battle  ; 

Now  lost  in  a  dream  : 
At  last  —  they  are  threading 

The  forest  of  pines, 
And  Ravenna  beleaguered 

By  chivalry  shines  ! 

*  «  « 

Ravenna !   Ravenna ! 

Now  "  God  for  the  right !  " 
For  the  Gaul  and  the  Spaniard 

Are  full  in  the  fight. 
French  squadrons  are  charging, 

Some  conquer,  some  reel ; 
Wild  trumpets  are  braying 

Aloud  for  Castile ! 
Each  cannon  that  roareth 

Bears  blood  on  its  sound, 
And  the  dead  and  the  dying 

Lie  thick  on  the  ground. 

Now  shrieks  are  the  music 

That 's  borne  on  the  gust, 
And  the  groan  of  the  war-horse 

Who  dies  in  the  dust : 
Now  Spaniards  are  cheered 

By  the  "  honor  "  they  love  ; 
Now  France  by  the  flower 

That  bloometh  above ; 
And,  indeed,  o'er  the  riot. 

The  steam,  and  the  cloud, 


SONGS. 

Still  the  Oriflamme  floateth, — 
The  pride  of  the  proud  ! 

What  ho  !  for  King  Louis  ! 

What  ho !  for  Narbonne  ! 
Come,  soldiers  !  't  is  Gaston 

Who  leadeth  ye  on  ! 
'T  is  Gaston,  your  brother. 

Who  waveth  his  hand  ; 
Who  fights,  as  ye  fight. 

For  the  vine-covered  land  I 
'T  is  Gaston,  —  't  is  Gaston, 

The  last  of  his  name, 
Who  fights  for  sweet  France, 

And  will  die  for  her  fame  ! 

"  Come  forward  !  Come  " Ha ! 

What  is  doing  ?     He  stops  ! 
Why  ?  why  ?     By  Saint  Denis ! 

He  staggers,  —  he  drops  ! 
'T  was  something  —  't  was  nothing  - 

A  shot  and  a  sound  ; 
Yet  the  ever-bright  hero 

Lies  low  on  the  ground  ! 
He  loseth  his  eye-sight  — 

He  loseth  his  breath  — 
He  smiles  —  Ah  !  his  beauty 

Is  darkened  by  death  ! 

No  pause  —  not  an  instant  — 
For  wailinor  or  woe  ! 


119 


120  SONGS. 

For  the  battle  still  rageth ; 

Still  fighteth  the  foe  ; 
Again  roar  the  cannon  — 

Again  flies  the  ball  — 
And  the  heart  of  the  Spaniard 

Spouts  blood  on  the  Gaul  1 
Strong  armor  is  riven, 

Proud  courage  laid  low, 
And  Frenchmen  and  foemen 

Are  dead  at  a  blow  ! 

O,  the  bellowing  thunders ! 

The  shudders  —  the  shocks  ! 
When  thousands  'gainst  thousands 

Come  clashing  like  rocks ! 
When  the  rain  is  all  scarlet. 

And  clouds  are  half  fire, 
And  men's  sinews  are  snapped 

Like  the  threads  of  a  lyre  ! 
When  each  litter  's  a  hearse. 

And  each  bullet  a  knell,  — 
When  each  breath  is  a  curse. 

And  each  bosom  —  a  hell ! 

•  *  • 

Mourn,  Soldiers,  —  he  's  dead  ! 

The  last  heir  of  Narbonne  ! 
The  bravest  —  the  best ! 

But  the  battle  is  won  ! 
The  Spaniards  have  flown 

To  their  fosse-covered  tent ; 


SONGS,  121 

And  the  victors  are  left 

To  rejoice  and  lament ! 
They  still  have  proud  leaders, 

Still  chivalry  brave  ; 
But  the  Jirst  of  their  heroes 

Lies  dumb  in  the  grave  ! 

They  bear  him  in  honor ; 

They  laurel  his  head  ; 
But,  who  meets  the  pale  burthen. 

And  drops  by  the  dead  ? 
The  Page  ?  —  No,  —  the  Woman  ! 

Who  followed  her  love 
And  who  '11  follow  him  still 

(If  it  may  be)  —  above ; 
Who  '11  watch  him,  and  tend  him, 

On  earth,  or  in  sky  ; 
Who  was  ready  to  live  for  him,  — 

Ready  to  die ! 

...  A  month  has  flown  by. 

On  the  wings  of  the  year  ; 
And  a  train  of  sad  maidens 

Droop  after  a  bier  ; 
No  crown  on  the  coffin  — 

No  name  on  the  lid  — 
Yet  the  flower  of  all  Provence 

Within  it  is  hid  ! 
Blanche  —  Countess, —  and  heiress  — 

Who  loved  like  the  sun. 
Lies,  at  leist,  by  the  side 

Of  the  heir  of  Narbonne  ! 


123  SONGS. 

. . .  O  Courage  !  dost  always 

Pay  blood  for  a  name  ? 
True  Love  !  must  thou  et'er-more 

Die  for  thy  fame  ? 
'T  were  sweet  —  could  it  be  — 

That  the  lover  should  dwell 
In  the  bosom  (a  heaven  !) 

He  loveth  so  well : 
But,  if  not  —  why,  then,  Death, 

Be  thou  just  to  his  worth, 
And  sweep  him  at  once 

From  the  scorn  of  the  earth  ! 


CII.  — THE  FIRE-FLY. 

Tell  us,  O  Guide !  by  what  strange  natural  laws 
This  winged  flower  throws  out,  night  after  night. 
Such  lunar  brightness  ?     Why^  —  for  what  grave  cause 
Is  this  earth-insect  crowned  with  heavenly  light  ? 
Peace  !     Rest  content !     See  where,  by  cliff  and  dell. 
Past  tangled  forest  paths  and  silent  river. 
The  little  lustrous  creature  guides  us  well, 
And  where  we  fail,  his  small  light  aids  us  ever. 

Night's  shining  servant !     Pretty  star  of  earth ! 

I  ask  not  why  thy  lamp  doth  ever  burn. 

Perhaps  it  is  thy  very  life,  —  thy  mind  ; 

And  thou,  if  robbed  of  that  strange  right  of  birth, 

Might  be  no  more  than  Man, — when  Death  doth  turn 

His  beauty  into  darkness,  cold  and  blind ! 


SOA'GS.  ISi 


cm.  — THE  BLOOD  HORSE. 

Gamarra  is  a  dainty  steed, 
Strong,  black,  and  of  a  noble  breed, 
Full  of  fire,  and  full  of  bone. 
With  all  his  line  of  fathers  known  ; 
Fine  his  nose,  his  nostrils  thin, 
But  blown  abroad  by  the  pride  within  ! 
His  mane  is  like  a  river  flowing. 
And  his  eyes  like  embers  glowing 
In  the  darkness  of  the  night. 
And  his  pace  as  swift  as  light. 

Look,  —  how  'round  his  straining  throat 

Grace  and  shifting  beauty  float ! 

Sinewy  strength  is  on  his  reins. 

And  the  red  blood  gallops  through  his  veins. 

Richer,  redder,  never  ran 

Through  the  boasting  heart  of  man. 

He  can  trace  his  lineage  higher 

Than  the  Bourbon  dare  aspire, — 

Douglas,  Guzman,  or  the  Guelph, 

Or  O'Brien's  blood  itself ! 

He,  who  hath  no  peer,  —  was  born 
Here,  upon  a  red  March  morn  : 
But  his  famous  fathers  dead 
Were  Arabs  all,  and  Arab  bred, 


124  SONGS. 

And  the  last  of  that  great  \me 

Trod  like  one  of  a  race  divine ! 

And  yet,  —  he  was  but  friend  to  one, 

Who  fed  him  at  the  set  of  sun, 

By  some  lone  fountain  fringed  with  green : 

With  him,  a  roving  Bedouin, 

He  lived,  —  (none  else  would  he  obey 

Through  all  the  hot  Arabian  day,)  — 

And  died  untamed  upon  the  sands 

Where  Balkh  amidst  the  desert  stands  ! 

CIV.  — HIDDEN  THOUGHTS. 

Some  joys  we  loudly  tell ; 

Some  thoughts  we  keep  apart,   , 
Fenced  round,  and  bid  them  dwell 

In  inmost  heart. 

Close  in  that  heart  (their  den) 
The  tiger  passions  sleep  : 

There,  too,  shut  out  from  men, 
Resolve  lies  deep. 

There  dreams  repose,  —  so  fair. 
So  frail,  that  but  to  sigh 

Their  names  unto  the  air 
Would  force  them  die. 

These  give,  like  violets  hid, 
A  perfume  to  the  mind,  — 

Give  sight,  as  once  they  did, 
To  poet  blind ! 


125 


CV.— AN  EPISTLE  TO  CHARLES  LAMB, 

ON    HIS    EMANCIPATION    FROM    CLERKSHIP. 
(WRITTEN   OVER   A   FLASK    OP   SHERRIS.) 

Dear  Lamb,  I  drink  to  thee, —  to  thee 
Married  to  sweet  Liberty  ! 

What !  old  friend,  and  art  thou  freed 

From  the  bondage  of  the  pen  ? 

Free  from  care  and  toil  indeed  ? 

Free  to  wander  amongst  men 

When  and  howsoe'er  thou  wilt  ? 

All  thy  drops  of  labor  spilt. 

On  those  huge  and  figured  pages, 

Which  will  sleep  unclasped  for  ages, 

Little  knowing  who  did  wield 

The  quill  that  traversed  their  white  field  ? 

Come,  —  another  mighty  health  ! 
Thou  hast  earned  thy  sum  of  wealth,  — 
Countless  ease,  —  immortal  leisure, — 
Days  and  nights  of  boundless  pleasure, 
Checquered  by  no  dream  of  pain, 
Such  as  hangs  on  clerk-like  brain 


126  soxGS. 

Like  a  nightmare,  and  doth  press 
The  happy  soul  from  liappiness. 

O,  happy  thou,  —  whose  all  of  time 

(Day  and  eve,  and  morning  prime) 

Is  filled  with  talk  on  pleasant  themes,  — 

Or  visions  quaint,  which  come  in  dreams 

Such  as  panthered  Bacchus  rules. 

When  his  rod  is  on  "  the  schools," 

Mixing  wisdom  with  theirwine  ;  — 

Or,  perhaps,  thy  wit  so  fine 

Strayeth  in  some  elder  book. 

Whereon  our  modern  Solons  look 

With  severe,  ungifted  eyes, 

Wondering  what  thou  seest  to  prize. 

Happy  thou,  whose  skill  can  take 

Pleasure  at  each  turn,  and  slake 

Thy  thirst  by  every  fountain's  brink. 

Where  less  wise  men  would  pause  to  shrink 

Sometimes  'mid  stately  avenues 

With  Cowley  thou,  or  Marvel's  muse, 

Dost  walk  ;  or  Gray,  by  Eton  towers  ; 

Or  Pope,  in  Hampton's  chestnut  bowers ; 

Or  Walton,  by  his  loved  Lea  stream : 

Or  dost  thou  with  our  Milton  dream 

Of  Eden  and  the  Apocalypse, 

And  hear  the  words  from  his  great  lips  ? 

Speak,  —  in  what  grove  or  hazel  shade, 
For  "  musing  meditation  made," 


SONGS.  127 

Dost  wander  ?  —  or  on  Penshurst  lawn. 
Where  Sidney's  fame  had  time  to  dawn 
And  die,  ere  yet  the  hate  of  Men 
Could  envy  at  his  perfect  pen  ? 
Or,  dost  thou,  in  some  London  street 
(With  voices  filled  and  thronging  feet,) 
Loiter,  with  mien  'twixt  grave  and  gay, — 
Or  take,  along  some  pathway  sweet, 
Thy  calm  suburban  way  ? 

Happy  beyond  that  man  of  Ross, 

Whom  mere  content  could  ne'er  engross, 

Art  thou,  —  with  hope,  health,  "  learned  leisure," 

Friends,  books,  thy  thoughts,  an  endless  pleasure ! 

—  Yet  —  yet, —  (for  when  was  pleasure  made 

Sunshine  all  without  a  shade  ?) 

Thou,  perhaps,  as  now  thou  rovest 

Through  the  busy  scenes  thou  lovest. 

With  an  Idler's  careless  look. 

Turning  some  moth-pierced  book, 

Feel'st  a  sharp  and  sudden  woe 

For  visions  vanished  long  ago  ! 

And  then,  thou  think'st  how  time  has  fled 

Over  thy  unsilvered  head. 

Snatching  many  a  fellow-mind 

Away,  and  leaving —  what  ?  —  behind  ! 

Nought,  alas  !  save  joy  and  pain 

Mingled  ever,  like  a  strain 

Of  music  where  the  discords  vie 

With  the  truer  harmony. 


128  SONGS. 

So,  perhaps,  with  thee  the  vein 
Is  suHied  ever,  —  so  the  chain 
Of  habits  and  affections  old. 
Like  a  weight  of  solid  gold, 
Presseth  on  thy  gentle  breast, 
Till  sorrow  rob  thee  of  thy  rest. 

Ay  :  so  't  must  be  !  —  Ev'n  I,  (whose  lot 

The  Fairy  Love  so  long  forgot,) 

Seated  beside  this  Sherris  wine, 

And  near  to  books  and  shapes  divine, 

Which  poets  and  the  painters  past 

Have  wrought  in  lines  that  aye  shall  last,  — 

Ev'n  I,  with  Shakspeare's  self  beside  me. 

And  one  whose  tender  talk  can  guide  me 

Through  fears,  and  pains,  and  troublous  themes. 

Whose  smile  doth  fall  upon  my  dreams 

Like  sunshine  on  a  stormy  sea,  — 

Want  something  —  when  I  think  of  thee  ! 


SONGS.  129 


CVI.  — SIT  DOWN,  SAD  SOUL. 

Sit  down,  sad  soul,  and  count 

The  moments  flying  : 
Come, — tell  the  sweet  amount 

That 's  lost  by  sighing  ! 
How  many  smiles  ?  —  a  score  ? 
Then  laugh,  and  count  no  more  ; 
For  day  is  dying ! 

Lie  down,  sad  soul,  and  sleep. 
And  no  more  measure 

The  flight  of  Time,  nor  weep 
The  loss  of  leisure  ; 

But  here,  by  this  lone  stream, 

Lie  down  with  us,  and  dream 
Of  starry  treasure  ! 

We  dream  :  do  thou  the  same  : 

We  love  —  for  ever ; 
We  laugh  ;  yet  few  we  shame. 

The  gentle,  never. 
Stay,  then,  till  Sorrow  dies  ; 
Then  —  hope  and  happy  skies 
Are  thine  for  ever  ! 
9 


130  SONGS. 


evil.  — A  CHAMBER  SCENE. 


Tread  softly  through  these  amorous  rooms  ; 
For  every  bough  is  hung  with  Hfe, 
And  kisses,  in  harmonious  strife, 
Unloose  their  sharp  and  winged  perfumes  ! 
From  Afric,  and  the  Persian  looms, 
The  carpet's  silken  leaves  have  sprung, 
And  heaven,  in  its  blue  bounty,  flung 
These  starry  flowers,  and  azure  blooms. 

Tread  softly !     By  a  creature  fair 
The  deity  of  love  reposes. 
His  red  lips  open,  like  the  roses 
Which  round  his  hyacinthine  hair 
Hang  in  crimson  coronals  ; 
And  Passion  fills  the  arched  halls  ; 
And  Beauty  floats  upon  the  air. 

Tread  softly,  —  softly,  like  the  foot 
Of  Winter,  shod  with  fleecy  snow. 
Who  cometh  white,  and  cold,  and  mute. 
Lest  he  should  wake  the  Spring  below. 
O,  look  !  —  for  here  lie  Love  and  Youth, 
Fair  Spirits  of  the  heart  and  mind  ; 
Alas  !  that  one  should  stray  fi'om  truth ; 
And  one  —  be  ever,  ever  blind  ! 


SONGS.  131 


C  VIII.  — COURAGE. 

Courage  !  —  Nothing  can  withstand 
Long  a  wronged,  undaunted  land  ; 
If  the  hearts  within  her  be 
True  unto  themselves  and  thee, 
Thou  freed  giant,  Liberty  ! 
O,  no  mountain-nymph  art  thou, 
When  the  helm  is  on  thy  brow, 
And  the  sword  is  in  thy  hand. 
Fighting  for  thy  own  good  land  ! 

Courage  !  —  Nothing  e'er  withstood 
Freemen  fighting  for  their  good  ; 
Armed  with  all  their  fathers'  fame, 
They  will  win  and  wear  a  name. 
That  shall  go  to  endless  glory. 
Like  the  Gods  of  old  Greek  story. 
Raised  to  heaven  and  heavenly  worth, 
For  the  good  they  gave  to  earth. 

Courage  !  —  There  is  none  so  poor, 
(None  of  all  who  wrong  endure,) 
None  so  humble,  none  so  weak, 
But  may  flush  his  father's  cheek, 
And  his  Maiden's  dear  and  true. 
With  the  deeds  that  he  may  do. 


132  SONGS. 

Be  his  days  as  dark  as  night, 
He  may  make  himself  a  light. 
"What !  though  sunken  be  the  sun, 
There  are  stars  when  day  is  done  ! 

Courage  !  —  Who  will  be  a  slave, 
That  hath  strength  to  dig  a  grave, 
And  therein  his  fetters  hide. 
And  lay  a  tyrant  by  his  side  ? 
Courage  !  —  Hope,  howe'er  he  fly 
For  a  time,  can  never  die  ! 
Courage,  therefore,  brother  men  ! 
Cry,  "  God  !  and  to  the  fight  again !  " 


CIX.      THE  FISHERMAN. 

SET  TO  MUSIC   BT   MK.    LEE. 

A  PERILOUS  life,  and  sad  as  life  may  be. 

Hath  the  lone  fisher  on  the  lonely  sea, 

O'er  the  wild  waters  laboring,  far  from  home. 

For  some  bleak  pittance  e'er  compelled  to  roam, 

Few  hearts  to  cheer  him  through  his  dangerous  life. 

And  none  to  aid  him  in  the  stormy  strife. 

Companion  of  the  sea  and  silent  air. 

The  lonely  fisher  thus  must  ever  fare  : 

Without  the  comfort,  hope,  —  with  scarce  a  friend. 

He  looks  through  life  and  only  sees  —  its  end ! 


SONGS.  133 


ex.— THE  PAUPER'S  JUBILEE. 

Hurrah  !    Who  was  e'er  so  gay, 

As  we  merry  folks  to-day  ? 

Brother  Beggars,  do  not  stare, 

But  toss  your  rags  into  the  air, 

And  cry,  "  No  work,  and  better  fare  !  " 

Each  man,  be  he  saint  or  sinner, 

Shall  to-day  have  —  Meat  for  Dinner  !  !  ! 

Yesterday,  O,  yesterday ! 
That  indeed  was  a  bad  day  ; 
Iron  bread,  and  rascal  gruel, 
Water  drink,  and  scanty  fuel, 
With  the  beadle  at  our  backs. 
Cursing  us  as  we  beat  flax. 
Just  like  twelve  Old  Bailey  Varlets, 
Amongst  oakum-picking  harlots  ! 

Why  should  we  such  things  endure  } 
Though  we  be  the  parish  Poor, 
This  is  usage  bad  and  rough. 
Are  not  age  and  pain  enough  .'' 
Lonely  age,  unpitied  pain .? 
With  the  Ban  that,  like  a  chain. 


134  SONGS. 

To  our  prison  bare  hath  bound  us, 
And  the  unwelcomed  Winter  round  us  ? 

Why  should  we  for  ever  work  ? 
Do  we  starve  beneath  the  Turk, 
That,  with  one  foot  in  the  grave, 
We  should  still  toil  like  the  slave  ? 
Seventy  winters  on  our  heads, 
Yet  we  freeze  on  wooden  beds  ! 
With  one  blanket  for  a  fold, 
That  lets  in  the  horrid  cold, 
And  cramps  and  agues  manifold  ! 

Yet,  —  sometimes  we  're  merry  people. 
When  the  chimes  clang  in  the  steeple  : 
If  't  be  summer-time,  we  all 
(Dropsied,  palsied,  crippled,)  crawl 
Underneath  the  sunny  wall : 
Up  and  down  like  worms  we  creep. 
Or  stand  still  and  fall  asleep, 
With  our  faces  in  the  sun, 
Forgetting  all  the  world  has  done  ! 

If  't  be  May,  with  hawthorn  blooms 

In  our  breasts,  we  sit  on  tombs. 

And  spell  o'er,  with  eager  ken, 

The  epitaphs  of  older  men, 

(Choosing  those,  for  some  strange  reasons, 

Who  've  weathered  ninety,  —  a  hundred  seasons,) 


SONGS.  135 

Till  forth  at  last  we  shout  in  chorus, 

"  We  've  thirty  good  years  still  before  us !  " 

But  to-day  's  a  bonny  day  ! 

What  shall  we  be  doing  ? 

What 's  the  use  of  saving  money, 

When  rivers  flow  with  milk  and  honey  ? 

Prudence  is  our  ruin. 

What  have  we  to  do  with  care  ? 

Who,  to  be  a  pauper's  heir. 

Would  mask  his  false  face  in  a  smile, 

Or  hide  his  honest  hate  in  guile  ? 

But  come,  —  why  do  we  loiter  here  ? 

Boy,  go  get  us  some  small  beer  : 

Quick  !  't  will  make  our  blood  run  quicker. 

And  drown  the  devil  Pain  in  liquor  ! 

March  so  fierce  is  almost  past, 

April  will  be  here  at  last, 

And  May  must  come, 

When  bees  do  hum. 

And  Summer  over  cold  victorious  ! 

Hurrah  !     'T  is  a  prospect  glorious  ! 

Meat  !     Small  Beer  !  and  Warmer  Weather  ! 

Come,  boys,  —  let 's  be  mad  together  ! 


136  SONGS. 


CXI.  — THE  FALCON. 


AFTER   A   PAINTING   BY   TITIAN. 


The  Falcon  is  a  noble  bird, 
And  when  his  heart  of  hearts  is  stirred, 
He  '11  seek  the  eagle,  though  he  run 
Into  his  chamber  near  the  sun. 
Never  was  there  brute  or  bird. 
Whom  the  woods  or  mountains  heard. 
That  could  force  a  fear  or  care 
From  him,  —  the  Arab  of  the  air ! 

To-day  he  sits  upon  a  wrist, 
Whose  purple  veins  a  queen  has  kissed. 
And  on  him  falls  a  sterner  eye 
Than  he  can  face  where'er  he  fly. 
Though  he  scale  the  summit  cold 
Of  the  Grimsel,  vast  and  old,  — 
Though  he  search  yon  sunless  stream, 
That  threads  the  forest  like  a  dream. 

Ah,  noble  Soldier  !  noble  Bird  ! 
Will  your  names  be  ever  heard,  — 
Ever  seen  in  future  story. 
Crowning  it  with  deathless  glory  ? 
Peace,  ho  !  —  the  master's  eye  is  drawn 
Away  unto  the  bursting  dawn  ! 
Arise,  thou  bird  of  birds,  arise. 
And  seek  thy  quarry  in  the  skies  ! 


SONGS.  137 


CXII.— THE  PAST. 


This  common  field,  this  little  brook,  — 
What  is  there  hidden  in  these  two. 

That  I  so  often  on  them  look, 

Oftener  than  on  the  heavens  blue  ? 

No  beauty  lies  upon  the  field  ; 

Small  music  doth  the  river  yield  ; 

And  yet  I  look  and  look  again. 

With  something  of  a  pleasant  pain. 

'T  is  thirty  —  can  it  be  thirty  years, 
Since  last  I  stood  upon  this  plank. 
Which  o'er  the  brook  its  figure  rears, 

And  watched  the  pebbles  as  they  sank  ? 
How  white  the  stream !     I  still  remember 
Its  margin  glassed  by  hoar  December, 
And  how  the  sun  fell  on  the  snow : 
Ah !  can  it  be  so  long  ago  ? 

It  Cometh  back  ;  —  so  blythe,  so  bright, 

It  hurries  to  my  eager  ken, 
As  though  but  one  short  winter's  night 

Had  darkened  o'er  the  world  since  then. 
It  is  the  same  clear,  dazzling  scene ;  — 
Perhaps  the  grass  is  scarce  as  green  ; 
Perhaps  the  river's  troubled  voice 
Doth  not  so  plainly  say,  —  "  Rejoice." 


138  SONGS. 

Yet  Nature  surely  never  ranges, 

Ne'er  quits  her  gay  and  flowery  crown ; 
But,  ever  joyful,  merely  changes 

The  primrose  for  the  thistle-down. 
'Tts  we  alone  who,  waxing  old. 
Look  on  her  with  an  aspect  cold, 
Dissolve  her  in  our  burning  tears, 
Or  clothe  her  with  the  mists  of  years ! 

Then,  why  should  not  the  grass  be  green  ? 

And  why  should  not  the  river's  song 
Be  merry,  —  as  they  both  have  been 

When  I  was  here  an  urchin  strong  ? 
Ah,  true,  —  too  true  !     I  see  the  sun 
Through  thirty  winter  years  hath  run. 
For  grave  eyes,  mirrored  in  the  brook, 
Usurp  the  urchin's  laughing  look ! 

So  be  it !     I  have  lost,  —  and  won  ! 

For,  once,  the  past  was  poor  to  me,  — 
The  future  dim  ;  and  though  the  sun 

Shed  life  and  strength,  and  I  was  free, 
I  felt  noi  —  Arneio  no  grateful  pleasure : 
All  seemed  but  as  the  common  measure  : 
But  NOW  —  the  experienced  Spirit  old 
Turns  all  the  leaden  past  to  gold  ! 


SONGS.  139 


CXm— SONG  OF  WOOD-NYMPHS. 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  dwell 

In  forest  deep ! 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  tell 

Why  thou  dost  weep  ! 

Is  it  for  love  (sweet  pain !) 

That  thus  thou  dar'st  complain 

Unto  our  pleasant  shades,  our  summer  leaves, 

Where  nought  else  grieves  ? 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  lie 

By  whispering  stream ! 

Here  no  one  dares  to  die 

For  Love's  sweet  dream  ; 

But  health  all  seek,  and  joy, 

And  shun  perverse  annoy. 

And  race  along  green  paths  till  close  of  day, 

And  laugh  —  alway  ! 

Or  else,  through  half  the  year, 

On  rushy  floor, 

We  lie  by  waters  clear. 

While  sky-larks  pour 

Their  songs  into  the  sun  ! 

And  when  bright  day  is  done. 

We  hide  'neath  bells  of  flowers  or  nodding  com. 

And  dream  —  till  morn  ! 


140 


SONGS. 


CXI  v.— THE  SONG  OF  A  FELON'S  WIFE, 

The  brand  is  on  thy  brow, 

A  dark  and  guilty  spot ; 
'T  is  ne'er  to  be  erased  ! 

'T  is  ne'er  to  be  forgot ! 

The  brand  is  on  thy  brow, 
Yet  /  must  shade  the  spot : 

For  who  will  love  thee  now. 
If  J  love  thee  not  ? 

Thy  soul  is  dark,  —  is  stained,  — 
From  out  the  bright  world  thrown  ; 

By  God  and  man  disdained. 
But  not  by  me,  —  thy  own  ! 

O,  even  the  tiger  slain 

Hath  07ie  who  ne'er  doth  flee. 

Who  soothes  his  dying  pain  f  — 
That  one  am  I  to  thee  ! 


SONGS.  141 


CXV.— TO  THE  SINGER  PASTA. 

Never  till  now,  —  never  till  now,  O  Queen 

And  Wonder  of  the  enchanted  world  of  sound  ! 

Never  till  now  was  such  bright  creature  seen, 
Startling  to  transport  all  the  regions  round  ! 

Whence  com'st  thou  —  with  those  eyes  and  that  fine 
mien. 
Thou  sweet,  sweet  singer  ?  —  Like  an  angel  found 

Mourning  alone,  thou  seem'st  (thy  mates  all  fled) 

A  star  'mongst  clouds,  —  a  spirit  'midst  the  dead. 

Melodious  thoughts  hang  round  thee  !     Sorrow  sings 
Perpetual  sweetness  near,  —  divine  despair ! 

Thou  speak'st,  —  and  Music,  with  her  thousand  strings, 
Gives  golden  answers  from  the  haunted  air ! 

Thou  mov'st, —  and  round  thee  Grace  her  beauty  flings  ! 
Thou  look'st, — and  Love  is  bom !    O  songstress  rare ! 

Lives  there  on  earth  a  power  like  that  which  lies 

In  those  resistless  tones,  —  in  those  dark  eyes  ? 

O,  I  have  lived  —  how  long  !  —  with  one  deep  treasure. 
One  fountain  of  delight  unlocked,  unknown  ; 

But  thou,  the  prophetess  of  my  new  pleasure, 
Hast  come  at  last,  and  struck  my  heart  of  stone  ; 

And  now  outgushes,  without  stint  or  measure. 
The  endless  rapture,  —  and  in  places  lone 


1^  SONGS. 

I  shout  it  to  the  stars  and  winds  that  flee, 
And  then  I  think  on  all  I  owe  to  thee  ! 

I  see  thee  at  all  hours,  —  beneath  all  skies, — 
In  every  shape  thou  tak'st,  or  passionate  path : 

Now  art  thou  like  some  winged  thing  that  cries 
Over  a  city  flaming  fast  to  death  ; 

Now,  in  thy  voice,  the  mad  Medea  dies  : 

Now  Desdemona  yields  her  gentle  breath  :  — 

All  things  thou  art  by  turns,  —  from  wrath  to  love ; 

From  the  queen  eagle  to  the  vestal  dove ! 

Horror  is  stem  and  strong,  and  death  (unmasked 
In  slow,  pale  silence,  or  'mid  brief  eclipse) ; 

But  what  are  they  to  thy  sweet  strength,  when  tasked 
To  its  height,  —  with  all  the  God  upon  thy  lips  ? 

Not  even  the  cloudless  days  and  riches,  asked 
By  one  who  in  the  book  of  darkness  dips. 

Vies  with  that  radiant  wealth  which  they  inherit 

Who  own,  like  thee,  the  Muse's  deathless  spirit. 

Would  I  could  crown  thee  as  a  king  can  crown ! 

Yet,  what  are  kingly  gifts  to  thy  fair  fame. 
Whose  echoes  shall  all  vulgarer  triumphs  drown, — 

Whose  light  shall  darken  every  meaner  name  ? 
The  gallant  courts  thee  for  his  own  renown  ; 

Mimicking  thee,  he  plays  love's  pleasant  game ; 
The  critic  brings  thee  praise,  which  all  rehearse ; 
And  I  —  alas  !  —  I  can  but  bring  my  verse  ! 


SONGS.  143 


CXVI.— FULLER'S  BIRD. 

"  I  have  read  of  a  bird,  which  hath  a  face  like,  and  yet  will  prey 
upon,  a  man;  who,  coming  to  the  water  to  drink,  and  finding  there 
by  reflection  that  lie  had  killed  one  like  himself,  piueth  away  by  de- 
grees, and  never  afterwards  enjoyeth  itself"  —  Fuller's  Worthies. 

The  wild-winged  creature,  clad  in  gore, 
(His  bloody  human  meal  being  o'er,) 

Comes  down  to  the  water's  brink : 
'T  is  the  first  time  he  there  hath  gazed, 
And  straight  he  shrinks  —  alarmed  —  amazed. 

And  dares  not  drink. 

"  Have  I  till  now,"  he  sadly  said, 

"  Preyed  on  my  brother's  blood,  and  made 

His  flesh  my  meal  to-day  ?  "  — 
Once  more  he  glances  in  the  brook, 
And  once  more  sees  his  victim's  look ; 

Then  turns  away. 

With  such  sharp  pain  as  human  hearts 
May  feel,  the  drooping  thing  departs 

Unto  the  dark,  wild  wood  ; 
And  there,  'midst  briars  and  sheltering  weeds. 
He  hideth  his  remorse,  and  feeds 

No  more  on  blood. 

And  in  that  weedy  brake  he  lies. 
And  pines,  and  pines,  until  he  dies ; 
And,  when  all  's  o'er, 


144  SONGS. 

What  follows  ?  —  Nought !  his  brothers  slake 
Their  thirst  in  blood  in  that  same  brake, 
Fierce  as  before  ! 

So  fable  flows !  —  But  would  you  find 
Its  moral  wrought  in  human  kind, 

Its  tale  made  worse  ; 
Turn  straight  to  Man^  and  in  his  fame 
And  forehead  read  "  The  Harpy''s  "  name  ; 

But  no  remorse ! 


CXVn.— THE  SEA,  — IN  CALM. 

Look  what  immortal  floods  the  sunset  pours 
Upon  us  !  —  Mark  !  how  still  (as  though  in  dreams 
Bound)  the  once  wild  and  terrible  Ocean  seems ! 
How  silent  are  the  winds !     No  billow  roars  : 
But  all  is  tranquil  as  Elysian  shores ! 
The  silver  margin  which  aye  runneth  round 
The  moon-enchanted  sea,  hath  here  no  sound  : 
Even  Echo  speaks  not  on  these  radiant  mooi-s ! 

What !  is  the  Giant  of  the  ocean  dead, 

Whose  strength  was  all  unmatched  beneath  the  sun 

No ;  he  reposes  !     Now  his  toils  are  done, 

More  quiet  than  the  babbling  brooks  is  he. 

So  mightiest  powers  by  deepest  calms  are  fed. 

And  sleep,  how  oft,  in  things  that  gentlest  be  ! 


SONGS.  145 


CXVin.— A  HOIN  OF  EVIL  SPIRITS. 

The  Moon  is  shining  on  her  way, 

The  planets,  yet  undimmed  by  sleep. 
Drink  light  from  the  far-flaming  day, 

"Who  still  is  hid  beyond  the  deep : 
But  here  both  men  and  Spirits  weep, 

And  earth  all  mourneth  unto  air. 
Because  there  liveth  nothing  fair, 

Nor  great,  save  on  the  azure  steep. 

And  on  that  hill  of  Heaven,  none 

Of  human  strength  or  thought  may  climb  ; 
For  there  bright  Angels  lie  alone. 

Reposing  since  the  birth  of  Time. 
They  bask  beneath  his  looks  sublime  ; 

But  nought  of  ease  or  hope  is  here. 
Where  sleep  is  linked  to  dreams  of  fear, 

And  error  to  the  pains  of  crime. 

The  moon  is  come,  —  but  she  shall  go  : 

The  stars  are  in  their  azure  nest ; 
The  jaded  wind  shall  cease  to  blow ; 

But  when  shall  we  have  hope  or  rest  ? 
Now  some  are  sad,  and  some  are  blessed  ; 

But  what  to  us  is  smile  or  sigh  ? 
Though  Peace,  the  white-winged  dove,  be  nigh. 

It  ne'er  must  be  the  Spirit's  guest !  i 

10 


146  SONGS. 

Behold !     The  young  and  glistening  Hour 

Comes  riding  through  the  gate  of  morn, 
And  we  awhile  must  quit  our  power, 

And  vanish  from  a  world  we  scorn. 
Look  !     Flattering  sin  begins  to  dawn 

From  man's  false  lips  and  woman's  eyes. 
And  hopes  and  hearts  are  racked  and  torn 

In  God's  green,  earthly  paradise ! 


CXIX.  — SOFTLY  WOO  AWAY  HER  BREATH. 

Softly  woo  away  her  breath, 

Gentle  Death ! 
Let  her  leave  thee  with  no  strife. 

Tender,  mournful,  murmuring  Life  ! 
She  hath  seen  her  happy  day  : 

She  hath  had  her  bud  and  blossom  : 
Now  she  pales  and  shrinks  away. 

Earth,  into  thy  gentle  bosom ! 

She  hath  done  her  bidding  here, 

Angels  dear ! 
Bear  her  perfect  soul  above, 

Seraph  of  the  skies,  —  sweet  Love ! 
Good  she  was,  and  fair  in  youth, 

And  her  mind  was  seen  to  soar, 
And  her  heart  was  wed  to  truth  : 

Take  her,  then,  for  evermore, — 
For  ever  —  evermore  ! 


SONGS.  147 


CXX.— A  THOUGHT  ON  A  RIVULET. 

Look  at  this  brook,  so  blithe,  so  free ! 
Thus  hath  it  been,  fair  boy,  for  ever, — 
A  shining,  dancing,  babbHng  river; 
And  thus  't  will  ever  be. 
'T  will  run,  from  mountain  to  the  main, 
With  just  the  same  sweet,  babbling  voice 
That  now  sings  out,  "  Rejoice,  —  rejoice  !  '* 
Perhaps  't  will  be  a  chain 
That  will  a  thousand  years  remain, — 
Ay,  through  all  times  and  changes  last, 
And  link  the  present  to  the  past. 
Perhaps  upon  this  selfsame  spot, 
Hereafter,  may  a  merry  knot 
(My  children's  children  !)  meet  and  play, 
And  think  on  me,  some  summer  day ; 
And  smile  (perhaps  through  youth's  brief  tears. 
While  thinking  back  through  wastes  of  years), 
And  softly  say, — 

"  'T  was  here  the  old  man  used  to  stray, 
And  gaze  upon  the  sky ;  and  dream 
(Long,  long  ago  !)  by  this  same  stream. 
He  's  in  his  grave  !     Ungentle  Time 
Hath  dealt  but  harshly  with  his  rhyme ; 
But  We  will  ne'er  forget  that  he 
Taught  us  to  love  this  river  free." 


148  SONGS. 


CXXI.  — I  LOVED  HER  WHEN  SHE  LOOKED  FROM  ME 

I  LOVED  her  when  she  looked  from  me, 

And  hid  her  stifled  sighs : 
rioved  her,  too,  when  she  did  smile 

With  shy  and  downcast  eyes. 
The  light  within  them  rounding  "  like 

The  young  moon  in  its  rise." 

I  loved  her !  —  Dost  thou  love  no  more, 

Now  she  from  thee  is  flown. 
To  some  far  distant,  distant  shore 

Unfettered,  and  alone  } 
Peace,  peace  !     I  know  her  :  She  will  come 

Again,  and  be  mine  own. 

A  kiss  —  a  sigh  —  a  little  word 
We  changed,  when  we  did  part ; 

No  more  ;  yet  read  I  in  her  eyes 
The  promise  of  her  heart ; 

And  Hope  (who  from  all  others  flies) 
From  me  will  ne'er  depart 

So  here  I  live,  —  a  lover  lone. 

Contented  with  my  state. 
More  sure  of  love,  if  she  return, 

Than  others  are  of  hate  : 
And  if  she  die  ?  —  I  too  can  die, 

Content  still  with  my  fate. 


SONGS.  149 


CXXII.  — A  STORM. 


The  Spirits  of  the  mighty  Sea 

To-night  are  'wakened  from  their  dreams, 
And  upwards  to  the  tempest  flee, 

Baring  their  foreheads  where  the  gleams 
Of  hghtning  run,  and  thunders  cry. 
Rushing  and  raining  through  the  sky ! 

The  Spirits  of  the  sea  are  waging 
Loud  war  upon  the  peaceful  Night, 

And  bands  of  the  black  winds  are  raging 
Thorough  the  tempest  blue  and  bright; 

Blowing  her  cloudy  hair  to  dust 

With  kisses,  like  a  madman's  lust ! 

What  Ghost  now,  like  an  Ate,  walketh 

Earth,  —  ocean,  —  air  ?  and  aye  with  Time, 

Mingled,  as  with  a  lover  talketh  ? 
Methinks  their  colloquy  sublime 

Draws  anger  from  the  sky,  which  raves 

Over  the  self-abandoned  waves  ! 

Behold  !  like  millions  massed  in  battle. 
The  trembling  billows  headlong  go, 

Lashing  the  barren  deeps,  which  rattle 
In  mighty  transport  till  they  grow 


150  SONGS. 

All  fruitful  in  their  rocky  home, 
And  burst  from  frenzy  into  foam. 

And  look !  where  on  the  faithless  billows 
Lie  women,  and  men,  and  children  fair ; 

Some  hanging,  like  sleep,  to  their  swollen  pillows, 
With  helpless  sinews  and  streaming  hair. 

And  some  who  plunge  in  the  yawning  graves ! 

Ah !  lives  there  no  strength  beyond  the  waves  ? 

'T  is  said,  the  Moon  can  rock  the  Sea 
From  frenzy  strange  to  silence  mild, — 

To  sleep,  —  to  death  :  —  But  where  is  S/je, 
While  now  her  storm-bom  giant  child 

Upheaves  his  shoulder  to  the  skies  ? 

Arise,  sweet  planet  pale,  —  arise  ! 

She  cometh,  —  lovelier  than  the  dawn 
In  summer,  when  the  leaves  are  green, 

More  graceful  than  the  alarmed  fawn, 
Over  his  grassy  supper  seen  : 

Bright  quiet  from  her  beauty  falls. 

Until  —  again  the  tempest  calls ! 

The  supernatural  Storm,  —  he  'waketh 
Again,  and  lo !  from  sheets  all  white, 

Stands  up  unto  the  stars,  and  shaketh 
Scorn  on  the  jewelled  locks  of  Night. 

He  carries  a  ship  on  his  foaming  crown. 

And  a  cry,  like  Hell,  as  he  rushes  down! 


SONGS.  151 


And  so  still  soars  from  calm  to  storm 

The  stature  of  the  unresting  Sea :  — 
So  doth  desire  or  wrath  deform 
Our  else  calm  humanity, — 
Until  at  last  we  sleep, 
And  never  'wake  nor  weep  ; 
(Hushed  to  death,  by  some  faint  tune,) 
In  our  grave  beneath  the  Moon  ! 


CXXIII.  — PARENTS'  LOVE. 

Young  Love  !  what  have  thy  dreams  above, 
Thy  hope,  thy  gladness,  thy  despair, 

That  with  the  parenCs  painful  love 
May  dare  compare  ? 

Thy  hopes  are  like  the  misty  cloud  ; 

Thy  gladness  like  the  shrinking  stream ; 
Thy  loud  despair  all  over-loud  ; 

Thy  life  —  a  dream  ! 

But  deeper  than  the  unfathomed  Main, 
The  parent's  voiceless  love  e'er  lies  ; 
nd,  O,  the  dread,  the  deatJi,  the  pain, 
When  all  hope  dies  ! 


152  SONGS. 


CXXIV.  — THE  VAL\  REGRET. 

O,  HAD  I  nursed,  when  I  was  young, 
The  lessons  of  my  father's  tongue, 
(The  deep,  laborious  thoughts  he  drew 
From  all  he  saw  and  others  knew,) 
I  might  have  been,  —  ah,  me  ! 
Thrice  sager  than  I  e'er  shall  be. 

For  what  saith  Time  ? 
Alas  !  he  only  shews  the  truth 
Of  all  that  I  was  told  in  youth ! 

The  thoughts  now  budding  in  my  brain,  — 
The  wisdom  I  have  bought  with  pain,  — 
The  knowledge  of  life's  brevity, — 
Frail  friendship,  —  false  philosophy, 
And  all  that  issues  out  of  woe, 
Methinks,  were  taught  me  long  ago  ! 

Then  what  says  Time  ? 
Alas !  he  but  brings  back  the  truth 
Of  all  I  heard  (and  lost !)  in  youth. 

Truths  !  —  hardly  learned  and  lately  brought 
From  many  a  far,  forgotten  scene  ! 

Had  I  but  listened,  as  I  ought. 
To  your  voices,  sage,  —  serene, 

O,  what  might  I  not  have  been 
In  the  realms  of  thought ! 


SONGS.  153 


CXX^'.  — THE  VIOLET. 


I  LOVE  all  things  the  seasons  bring, 
All  buds  that  start,  all  birds  that  sing, 

All  leaves,  from  white  to  jet ; 
All  the  sweet  words  that  summer  sends, 
When  she  recalls  her  flowery  friends, 

But  chief — the  Violet ! 

I  love,  how  much  I  love  the  rose. 

On  whose  soft  lips  the  South-wind  blows. 

In  pretty,  amorous  threat ; 
The  lily,  paler  than  the  moon. 
The  odorous,  wondrous  world  of  June, 

Yet  more  —  the  Violet ! 

She  comes,  the  first,  the  fairest  thing 
That  Heaven  upon  the  earth  doth  fling. 

Ere  Winter's  star  has  set: 
She  dwells  behind  her  leafy  screen. 
And  gives,  as  Angels  give,  unseen. 

So,  love  —  the  Violet ! 

What  modest  thoughts  the  Violet  teaches. 
What  gracious  boons  the  Violet  preaches. 

Bright  maiden,  ne'er  forget ! 
But  learn,  and  love,  and  so  depart. 
And  sing  thou,  with  thy  wiser  heart, 

"-Long  lice  the  Violet  !  " 


154  SONGS. 


CXX  VI.— BEAUTY 

Painters,  —  Poets,  —  who  can  tell 
What  Beauty  is,  —  bright  miracle  ? 
Sometimes  brown  and  sometimes  white, 
She  shifts  from  darkness  into  light. 
Swimming  on  with  such  fine  ease 
That  we  miss  her  small  degrees, 
Knowing  not  that  she  hath  ranged 
Till  we  find  her  sweetly  changed. 

They  are  poets  false  who  say 

That  Beauty  must  be  fair  as  day, 

And  that  the  rich  red  rose 

On  her  cheek  for  ever  glows. 

Or  that  the  cold  white  lily  lieth 

On  her  breast,  and  never  flieth. 

Beauty  is  not  so  unkind. 

Not  so  niggard,  not  so  blind. 

As  yield  her  favor  but  to  one, 

When  she  may  walk  uncon fined, 

Associate  with  the  unfettered  Wind, 

And  wander  with  the  Sun. 

No  ;  she  spreads  her  gifts,  her  grace. 

O'er  every  color,  every  face. 

She  can  laugh,  and  she  can  breathe 

Freely  where  she  will,  —  beneath 

Polar  darkness,  tropic  star. 

Impoverished  Delhi,  dark  Bahar, 

And  all  the  regions,  bright  and  far, 

Where  India's  sweet-voiced  women  are ! 


SONGS.  155 


CXXVn— SYBILLA. 

Stbilla  !     Dost  thou  love  ? 

O,  swear !     O,  swear ! 
By  those  stedfast  stars  above  ! 

By  this  pure,  sweet  air  ! 

By  all  things  true,  and  deep,  and  fair ! 
By  hearts  made  rich  with  love. 

Made  wise  by  care  ! 

Sybilla  !    I  love  thee  ! 

I  swear,  I  swear, — 
By  all  bright  things  that  be  ! 

By  thyself,  my  fair  ! 
By  thine  eyes,  and  motions  free ! 
By  thy  sling,  thou  honey-bee  ! 
By  thy  angel  thoughts,  that  flee 
Singing  through  the  golden  air, 
I  swear,  I  swear ! 

Sybilla  !  dost  thou  frown  ? 

Beware,  beware ! 
If  scorn  thy  beauty  crown, 

1  fly,  —  yet  where  ? 
Why  are  thine  eyes  withdrawn  ? 
Why  dost  thou  turn,  thou  fawn  ? 
Look  on  me,  like  the  dawn 

On  weeping  air ! 
She  smiles—  O  Beauty  blessed, 
Take,  —  take  me  to  thy  breast, 

And  cure  all  care  ! 


156  SONGS. 


CXXnU.  — A  MIDSUMMER  FANCY. 

Come  hither  !     Let  thou  and  I 
Mount  on  the  dolphin,  Pleasure, 
And  dive  through  the  azure  air ! 
Would  't  not  be  fine,  —  would  't  not  be  rare 
To  live  in  that  sweet,  sweet  sea,  the  air,  — 
That  ocean  which  hath  no  measure. 

No  peril,  no  rocky  shore, 
(But  only  its  airy,  airy  streams, 
And  its  singing  stars,  and  its  orbed  dreams,) 
For  ever  and  evermore ! 

Of  its  wild  and  its  changing  weather 

What  matter  —  how  foul  or  fair  .'' 
We  will  ever  be  found  together  ; 
Ah  !  then,  sweet  Love,  what  care, 

Whether  we  haunt  on  the  earth  or  air  ? 
In  ocean  or  inland  stream  ? 
Or  are  lost  in  some  endless,  endless  dream  ? 
Or  are  bodiless  made,  like  the  tender  sprite 
Of  Love,  who  watched  me  but  yesternight. 
With  moon-flowers  white  on  her  whiter  brow, 

And  smiled  and  sighed. 

In  her  sad,  sweet  pride, 
As  Thou,  fair  girl !  dost  now. 


SONGS.  157 


CXXIX.  — PAST  AND  PRESENT. 

In  earlier  days,  in  happier  hours, 

I  watched  and  wandered  with  the  Sun  : 

I  saw  him  when  the  East  was  red ; 

I  saw  him  when  the  day  was  dead,  — 
All  his  earthly  journey  done  ! 
Looks  of  love  were  in  the  West, 
But  he  passed,  —  and  took  no  rest ! 

O'er  the  immeasurable  blue, 

Across  the  rain,  amid  the  blast. 
Onwards  and  onwards,  like  a  God, 
Through  the  trackless  air  he  trod, 

Scattering  bounties  as  be  passed 

By  the  portals  of  the  West,  — 

And  never  shut  his  eyes  in  rest ! 

O,  how  —  in  those  too  happy  hours  — 
How  deeply  then  did  I  adore 

The  bright,  unwearied,  sleepless  Sun, 
And  wish,  just  thus,  my  course  to  run, — 
From  sea  to  sea,  from  shore  to  shore, 
My  deeds  thus  good,  thus  known,  thus  bright. 
Thus  undisturbed  by  rest  or  night. 


158  SONGS. 

But  now,  —  since  I  have  heard  and  seen 
The  many  cares  that  trouble  life, 
The  evil  that  requiteth  good, 
The  benefits  not  understood, 
Unfilial,  unpaternal  strife, 
The  hate,  the  lie,  the  bitter  jest,  — 
I  feel  how  sweet  are  night  and  rest ! 

And,  O,  what  morning  ever  looked 
So  lovely  as  the  quiet  eve. 

When  low  and  fragrant  winds  arise, 
And  draw  the  curtains  of  the  skies, 
And  gentle  songs  of  summer  weave  ;  — 
Such  as  between  the  alders  creep, 
Now,  and  soothe  my  soul  to  sleep ! 


CXXX.  — WILT  THOU  GO? 

Wilt  thou  go  ?     Thou  'It  come  again  ? 
Swear  it.  Love,  by  love's  sweet  pain  ! 
Swear  it,  by  the  stars  that  glisten 
In  thy  brow  as  thou  dost  listen ! 
Swear  it,  by  the  love-sick  air. 
Wandering,  murmuring,  here  and  there, 
Seeking  for  some  tender  nest. 
Yet,  like  thee,  can  never  rest. 
Swear !  —  and  I  shall  safer  be 
Amidst  love's  sweet  mutiny  ! 


SONGS.  159 

CXXXI.  — ON  SOME  HUMAN  BONES,  FOUND  ON  A  HEADLAND 
IN  THE  BAY  OF  PANAMA. 

Vague  Mystery  hangs  on  all  these  desert  places  ! 

The  fear  which  hath  no  name,  hath  wrought  a  spell  \ 
Strength,  courage,  wrath  —  have  been,  and  left  no 
traces ! 

They  came,  —  and  fled ;  but  whither  ?   Who  can  tell  ? 

We  know  but  that  they  were,  —  that  once  {in  days 
When  ocean  was  a  bar  'twixt  man  and  man) 

Stout  spirits  wandered  o'er  these  capes  and  bays, 
And  perished  where  these  river  waters  ran. 

Methinks  they  should  have  built  some  mighty  tomb. 
Whose  granite  might  endure  the  century's  rain, 

Cold  winter,  and  the  sharp  night  winds,  that  boom 
Like  Spirits  ia  their  purgatorial  pain. 

They  left,  't  is  said,  their  proud,  unburied  bones 
To  whiten  on  this  unacknowledged  shore  : 

Yet  nought  beside  the  rocks  and  worn  sea-stones 
Now  answer  to  the  great  Pacific's  roar ! 

A  mountain  stands  where  Agamemnon  died  : 
And  Cheops  hath  derived  eternal  fame, 

Because  he  made  his  tomb  a  place  of  pride  : 
And  thus  the  dead  Metella  earned  a  name. 

But  these,  —  they  vanished  as  the  lightnings  die 
(Their  mischiefs  over)  in  the  affrighted  earth ; 

And  no  one  knoweth  underneath  the  sky 

What  heroes  perished  here,  nor  whence  their  birth  ! 


160  SONGS. 


CXXXn.  — AN  IRISH  SONG. 

AIR  —  KATHLEEN   O'  MORE. 

He  is  gone  to  the  wars,  and  has  left  me  alone, 
The  poor  Irish  soldier,  unfriended,  unknown, 

My  husband,  my  Patrick, 
The  bird  of  my  bosom,  —  though  now  he  is  flown  ! 

How  I  mourned  for  the  boy  !  yet  I  murmured  the  more, 
'Cause  we  once  were  so  happy  in  darlin'  Lismore, 

Poor  Ellen  and  Patrick  !  — 
Perhaps  he  now  thinks  of  poor  Ellen  no  more ! 

A  cabin  we  had,  and  the  cow  was  hard  by, 
And  a  slip  of  a  garden  that  gladdened  the  eye : 

And  there  was  our  Patrick, — 
Ne'er  idle  whilst  light  ever  lived  in  the  sky. 

We  married,  —  too  young,  and  it 's  likely  too  poor. 
Yet  no  two  were  so  happy  in  happy  Lismore, 

As  Ellen  and  Patrick, 
Till  they  tempted  and  took  him  away  from  our  door. 

He  said  he  would  bring  me,  ere  Autumn  should  fall, 
A  linnet  or  lark  that  should  come  at  my  call : 

Alas  !  the  poor  Patrick  ! 
He  has  left  me  a  bird  that  is  sweeter  than  all. 

T  was  bom  in  a  hovel,  't  was  nourished  in  pain. 
But  it  came  in  my  grief,  like  a  light  on  the  brain, 

(The  child  of  poor  Patrick,) 
And  taught  me  to  hope  for  bright  fortune  again. 


SONGS.  161 

And  now,  —  We  two  wander  from  door  unto  door, 
And,  sometimes,  we  steal  back  to  happy  Lismore, 

And  ask  for  poor  Patrick  ; 
And  dream  of  the  days  when  all  wars  will  be  o'er ! 


CXXXIII.— 'T  IS  BETTER  WE  LAUGH  THAN  WEEP. 

Why,  why  doth  your  music  grieve 

In  passion  so  grave  and  deep  ? 
Ah  !  sweet  Musicians,  believe, 
'T  is  better  we  laugh  than  weep. 
Say,  say,  —  holh  grave  and  gay, 
Should  we  not  laugh,  whene''er  we  may  ? 
Thro''  day  and  night,  thro''  night  and  day  7 

Life,  life  has  its  share  of  pain ; 

Yet  for  ever  why  weep  or  fear  ? 
Since  the  Past  ne'er  cometh  again, 

And  To-morrow  is  not  yet  here  ? 

All,  all  that  is  quite  our  own, 

Is  the  minute  we  touch  to-day. 
And  that,  while  we  speak,  is  flown, 

And  beareth  its  ills  away ! 

So,  let  not  your  music  grieve 

In  melodies  grave  nor  deep  ; 
For,  dear  Musicians,  believe, 

'T  is  better  we  laugh  than  weep  ! 
11 


162  SONGS. 


CXXXrV.  — A  DREVKIXG  SONG. 

Drink,  and  fill  the  night  with  mirth ! 

Let  us  have  a  mighty  measure, 
Till  we  quite  forget  the  earth, 

And  soar  into  the  world  of  pleasure. 
Drink,  and  let  a  health  go  round, 

('T  is  the  drinker's  noble  duty,) 
To  the  eyes  that  shine  and  wound, 

To  the  mouths  that  bud  in  beauty ! 

Here  's  to  Helen  !     Why,  ah  !  why 

Doth  she  fly  from  my  pursuing  ? 
Here  's  to  Marian,  cold  and  shy ! 

May  she  warm  before  thy  wooing ! 
Here  's  to  Janet!     I  've  been  e'er. 

Boy  and  man,  her  staunch  defender. 
Always  sworn  that  she  was  fair, 

Always  knovm  that  she  was  tender ! 

Fill  the  deep-mouthed  glasses  high. 

Let  them  with  the  champagne  tremble, 
Like  the  loose  wrack  in  the  sky. 

When  the  four  wild  winds  assemble  ! 
Here  's  to  all  the  love  on  earth, 

(Love,  the  young  man's,  wise  man's,  treasure  !) 
Drink,  and  fill  your  throats  with  mirth  ! 

Drink,  and  drown  the  world  in  pleasure  ! 


SONGS.  163 


CXXXV.  — RIVER  OF  THE  MORN. 

River  of  the  morn  ! 
Fast  thou  flow'st  and  bright ; 

From  the  sundered  East  thou  flowest, 
Bearing  down  the  Night : 

Every  cloud  thy  beauty  drinketh  ; 

Darkness  from  thy  current  shrinketh  ; 
Leaving  the  heavens  empty  quite, 
For  the  conquering  Light ! 

O,  the  Thought  new-born ! 

Lovely  't  is,  and  bright : 

Like  some  jewel  of  the  morn. 

Nursed  in  frozen  night. 

But  it  trembleth  soon  and  groweth. 
And  dissolved  in  splendor  floweth, 
(Like  the  flooding  dawn  that  pours 
O'er  and  o'er  the  cloudy  shores,) 

Till  blind  Ignorance  wings  her  flight 

From  the  conquering  Light ! 

O,  ye  Thoughts  of  youth. 

Long  since  flown  away  ! 
What  ye  want  in  truth. 

Ye  in  love  repay ! 

Though  in  shadowy  forests  hidden. 
Like  the  bird  that  's  lost  and  chidden. 
Back  again  with  all  your  songs 
Ye  do  come,  and  soothe  our  wrongs. 

Till  the  unburthened  heart  doth  soar 

Wiser  than  before ! 


164  SONGS. 


CXXXVI.  — SONG  SHOULD  BREATHE. 

Song  should  breathe  of  scents  and  flowers  ; 

Song  should  like  a  river  flow  ; 
Song  should  bring  back  scenes  and  hours 

That  we  loved,  —  ah,  long  ago  ! 

Song  from  baser  thoughts  should  win  us ; 

Song  should  charm  us  out  of  woe  ; 
Song  should  stir  the  heart  within  us, 

Like  a  patriot's  friendly  blow. 

Pains  and  pleasures,  all  man  doeth. 

War  and  peace,  and  right  and  wrong,  — 

All  things  that  the  soul  subdueth 
Should  be  vanquished,  too,  by  Song. 

Song  should  spur  the  mind  to  duty ; 

Nerve  the  weak,  and  stir  the  strong : 
Every  deed  of  truth  and  beauty 

Should  be  crowned  by  starry  Song ! 


SONGS.  165 


CXXXVII.— SONG  FOR  OUR  FATHER-LAND. 

HuERAH !     Here  's  a  health  to  the  land, 

Brave  brothers,  wherein  we  were  born  ; 
Here  's  a  health  to  the  friend  that  we  love  ! 
Here  's  a  heart  for  the  man  that 's  forlorn ! 
Let  us  drink  unto  all, 
Who  help  us  or  lack  us. 
From  the  child  and  the  poor  man 
To  Ceres  and  Bacchus  ; 
And  to  Plenty  (thrice  over !)  not  forgetting  her  horn ! 

Here  's  a  health  to  the  Sun  in  the  sky ; 

To  the  corn,  —  to  the  fruit  in  the  ground ; 
To  the  fish,  —  to  the  brute,  —  to  the  bird  ; 
To  the  vine,  —  may  it  spread  and  abound ! 
To  good  fellows  and  friends 
Whom  we  love  or  who  love  us, 
Far  off  us,  or  near  us. 
Below,  or  above  us ; 
For  a  friend  is  a  gem,  —  wheresoever  he  's  found  ! 

Here  's  a  curse  on  bad  times  that  are  past ! 

Were  they  better  —  but  now  they  're  no  more  ! 
So,  here  's  to  all  Good,  —  may  it  last ! 

And  a  health  to  the  future,  —  thrice  o'er ! 
May  the  hope  that  we  look  upon 
Never  deceive  us ! 
May  the  Spirit  of  good 
Never  fail  us  or  leave  us  ; 
But  stand  up  like  a  friend  that  is  true  to  the  core  ! 


166  SONGS. 

Ambition,  —  O,  lay  it  in  dust ! 

Revenge,  —  't  is  a  snake  :  let  it  die ! 
And  for  Pride,  —  let  it  feed  on  a  crust, 
Though  sweet  Pity  look  out  from  the  sky  ! 
But  Wisdom  and  Hope, 
And  the  honest  endeavor, — 
May  they  smile  on  us  now, 
And  stand  by  us  for  ever. 
Fast  friends,  wheresoever  the  tempest  shall  fly  ! 


CXXXVIII.  — THOU  HAST  LOVE  WITHIN  THINE  EYES. 

Thou  hast  love  within  thine  eyes, 

Though  they  be  as  dark  as  night ; 
And  a  pity  (shewn  by  sighs) 

Heaveth  in  thy  bosom  white  : 

What  is  all  the  azure  light 
Which  the  flaxen  beauties  shew. 

If  the  scorn  be  sharp  and  bright. 
Where  the  tender  love  should  glow  ? 

Do  I  love  thee  ?  —  Lady,  no ! 

I  was  born  for  other  skies. 
Where  the  palmy  branches  grow. 

And  the  unclouded  mornings  rise  : 

There  —  (when  sudden  evening  dies) 
I  will  tell  of  thee,  before 

The  beauty  of  Dione's  eyes, 
And  she  shall  love  thee  evermore  ! 


SONGS.  16T 


CXXXIi— TO  THE  SNOW-DROP. 

Peettt  firstling  of  the  year ! 

Herald  of  the  host  of  flowers  ! 
Hast  thou  left  my  cavern  drear, 

In  the  hope  of  summer  hours  ? 

Back  unto  my  earthem  bowers ! 
Back  to  thy  warm  world  below, 

Till  the  strength  of  suns  and  showers 
Quell  the  now  relentless  snow  ! 

Art  still  here  ?  —  Alive  ?  and  blythe  ? 

Though  the  stormy  Night  hath  fled, 
And  the  Frost  hath  passed  his  scythe 

O'er  thy  small,  unsheltered  head  ? 

Ah  !  —  some  lie  amidst  the  dead, 
(Many  a  giant,  stubborn  tree,  — 

Many  a  plant,  its  spirit  shed,) 
That  were  better  nursed  than  thee  ! 

What  hath  saved  thee  ?     Thou  wast  not 

'Gainst  the  arrowy  winter  furred,  — 
Armed  in  scale,  —  but  all  forgot 

When  the  frozen  winds  were  stirred. 

Nature,  who  doth  clothe  the  bird, 
ShouW  have  hid  thee  m  the  earth. 

Till  the  cuckoo's  song  was  heard. 
And  the  Spring  let  loose  her  mirth. 

Nature,  —  deep  and  mystic  word  ! 
Mighty  mother,  still  unknown  ! 


168  SONGS. 

Thou  didst  sure  the  Snow-drop  gird 
With  an  armor  all  thine  own ! 
Thou,  who  sent'st  it  forth  alone 

To  the  cold  and  sullen  season, 

(Like  a  thought  at  random  thrown,) 

Sent  it  thus  for  some  grave  reason ! 

If  't  were  but  to  pierce  the  mind 

With  a  single,  gentle  thought, 
Who  shall  deem  thee  harsh  or  blind  ? 

Who  that  thou  hast  vainly  wrought  ? 

Hoard  the  gentle  virtue  caught 
From  the  Snow-drop,  —  reader  wise ! 

Good  is  good,  wherever  taught, 
On  the  ground  or  in  the  skies ! 


CXL.  — WILT  THOU  LEAVE  ME? 

Wilt  thou  leave  me  ?     I  did  give 
All  my  fond,  true  heart  to  i/iee. 

Dreaming  thou  mightst  scorn  it  not ; 
And  canst  thou  abandon  me  ? 

I  have  loved,  —  O,  word  of  love, 
Bear  me  to  thy  star  of  bliss  ! 

Let  me  know  if  worlds  above 
Can  requite  the  pain  of  this  ?  • 

I  have  loved,  —  O,  lover,  why 
Must  I  all  my  fondness  tell  ? 

Do  not  —  do  not  bid  me  die 

At  thy  cruel  word  —  "  Farewell ! " 


SONGS.  169 


CXLI.-IN  COMMEMORATION  OF  HAYDN. 

SKT    TO   MUSIC   BY  THE   CHEVAUEB  NEUKOMM. 

Come  forth,  victorious  Sounds,  —  from  harp  and  horn, 
From  viol,  and  trump,  and  echoing  instruments  ! 

A  hundred  years  have  flown !     A  hundred  years 

Of  toil  and  strife,  of  joys  and  tears. 
Have  risen  to  life,  and  died  'midst  vain  laments, 

Since  that  harmonious  morn 

Whereon  the  Muse's  mighty  Son  was  bom ! 

Sound,  —  Immortal  Music,  sound! 

Bid  the  golden  words  go  round  ! 

Every  heart  and  tongue  proclaim 

Haydn's  power !    Haydn's  fame  ! 

Sing,  —  how  well  he  earned  his  glory  ! 

Sing,  —  how  he  shall  live  in  story ! 

Sing, —  how  he  doth  live  in  light; 
Shining  like  a  star  above  us. 
Bending  down  to  cheer  and  love  us. 

Crowned  with  his  own  divine  delight ! 

Sound,  —  Immortal  Music,  sound  ! 

Bid  thy  golden  words  go  round ! 

Every  grand  and  gentle  tone. 
Every  truth  he  made  his  own  ; 
Gathering  from  the  human  mind 
All  the  bloom  that  poets  find,  — 


170  SONGS. 

Gathering,  from  the  winds  and  ocean, 
Dreams,  to  feed  his  high  emotion, 
When  the  Muse  was  past  control,  — 
Gathering,  from  all  things  that  roll 
Within  Time's  vast  and  starry  round. 
The  thoughts  that  give  a  Soul  to  sound  ! 


CXLII.-ON  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  A  CHILD. 

A  YEAR  —  an  age  shall  fade  away, 

(Ages  of  pleasure  and  of  pain, 
And  yet  the  face  I  see  to-day 

For  ever  shall  remain,  — 
In  my  heart  and  in  my  brain ! 
Not  all  the  scalding  tears  of  care 
Shall  wash  away  that  vision  fair  ; 
Not  all  the  thousand  thoughts  that  rise, 
Not  all  the  sights  that  dim  mine  eyes. 

Shall  e'er  usurp  the  place 

Of  that  little  angel  face  ! 

But  here  it  shall  remain 
For  ever ;  and  if  joy  or  pain 
Turn  my  troubled  winter  gaze 
Back  unto  my  hawthorn  days. 
There,  amongst  the  hoarded  past, 
I  shall  see  it  to  the  last ; 
The  only  thing,  save  poet's  rhyme. 
That  shall  not  own  the  touch  of  Time ! 


SONGS.  171 


CXLin.  —  INSCRIPTIONS.  —  More  Gractim. 
I.    For  a  Focntain. 

Rest  !     This  little  Fountain  runs 

Thus  for  aye  :  —  It  never  stays 
For  the  look  of  summer  suns, 

Nor  the  cold  of  winter  days. 
Whosoe'er  shall  wander  near, 

When  the  Syrian  heat  is  worst, 
Let  him  hither  come,  nor  fear 

Lest  he  may  not  slake  his  thirst : 
He  will  find  this  little  river 
Running  still  as  bright  as  ever. 
Let  him  drink,  and  onwards  hie. 
Bearing  but  in  thought  that  I, 
Erotas,  bade  the  Naiad  fall. 
And  thank  the  great  god  Pan  for  all ! 

II.    For  a  Templk  op  ^Escclapius. 

In  this  high  nook,  built  all  by  mortal  hand. 
An  Epidaurian  Temple,  here  I  stand 
Sacred  to  him  who  drives  away  disease. 
And  gives  to  all  who  seek  him  health  and  ease  ! 
I  stand  devoted  to  the  God  of  health,  — 
To  .(Esculapius  old  ;  built  by  the  wealth 
Of  grateful  men,  who  owe  to  his  rare  skill 
Life,  ease,  and  all  that  fortune  spares  them  still ! 


172  SONGS. 


III.    For  a  Streamlet. 

Traveller,  note !    Although  I  seem 
But  a  little  sparkling  stream, 
I  come  from  regions  where  the  sun 
Dwelleth  when  his  toil  is  done,  — 
From  yon  proud  hills  in  the  West. 
Thence  I  come,  and  never  rest. 
Till  (curling  round  the  mountain's  feet 
I  find  myself  'mid  pastures  sweet. 
Vernal,  green,  and  ever  gay ; 
And  then  I  gently  slide  away, 
A  thing  of  silence,  —  till  I  cast 
My  life  into  the  sea  at  last ! 


IV.    For  an  Antique  Drinking  Cup. 

Drink  !     If  thou  find'st  my  round  all  filled  with  wine, 
Which  lifts  men's  creeping  thoughts  to  dreams  divine, 
Drink,  and  become  a  God  !     Anacreon  old 
Once  quenched  his  mighty  thirst  from  out  my  gold  : 
Rich  was  I,  red,  and  brimming  ;  —  but  he  laughed, 
And,  (tasting  sparely,)  drained  me  at  a  draught. 
Bacchanal !     If  thou  lov'st  the  Teian's  fame. 
Take  courage,  —  grasp  me  fast, —  and  straight  do  Thou 
the  same  ! 


SONGS.  173 


CXLIV.  — NAPOLEON. 


Hark  !  the  world  is  rent  asunder : 
Nations  are  aghast ;  and  kings 
(Mingling  in  the  common  wonder) 
Shake,  Hke  humbler  things. 

Only  thou  art  left  alone, 

Napoleon  !     Napoleon  ! 

Plague,  from  out  her  trance  awaking. 

Quits  her  ancient  hot  domain  ; 
And  War,  the  statesman's  fetters  breaking. 
Shouts  to  thee  —  in  vain  ! 

Both  to  thee  are  now  unknown. 

Napoleon  !     Napoleon  ! 

He  who  rode  War's  fiery  billows 

Once,  and  ruled  their  surges  wild, 
Now  beneath  Helena's  willows 
Sleepeth  —  like  a  child  ! 

All  thy  soaring  spirit  jlown  : 

Napoleon  !     Napoleon  ! 

In  his  grave  the  warrior  sleepeth, 
Humbly  laid,  and  half  forgot. 
And  nought,  besides  the  willow,  weepeth 
O'er  that  silent  spot ! 

Calm  it  is,  and  all  thine  own  ; 

Napoleon  !    Napoleon  ! 

But,  —  what  columns  teach  his  merit } 
What  rich  ermines  wrap  him  round  }  — 


174  SONGS. 

None ;  —  His  proud  and  plumed  Spirit 
Crowns  alone  the  ground  ! 

Proud  and  pale,  and  all  alone., 

Lies  the  dead  Napoleon  ! 


CXLV.  — GOLDEN-TRESSED  ADELAmE. 

A    SONG    FOR   A    CHILD. 
SET  TO  MnSIC  BY  THE  CHEVALIER  NEUKOMH. 

Sing,  I  pray,  a  little  song, 

Mother  dear ! 
Neither  sad  nor  very  long  : 
It  is  for  a  little  maid, 
Golden-tressed  Adelaide ! 
Therefore  let  it  suit  a  merry,  merry  ear, 

Mother  dear ! 

Let  it  be  a  merry  strain, 

Mother  dear ! 
Shunning  e'en  the  thought  of  pain  : 
For  our  gentle  child  will  weep. 
If  the  theme  be  dark  and  deep  ; 
And  We  will  not  draw  a  single,  single  tear. 

Mother  dear ! 

Childhood  should  be  all  divine. 

Mother  dear ! 
And  like  an  endless  summer  shine ; 


SONGS.  175 

Gay  as  Edward's  shouts  and  cries, 
Bright  as  Agnes'  azure  eyes  : 

Therefore,  bid  thy  song  be  merry  :  —  dost  thou  hear, 
Mother  dear  ? 


CXLVI.-LOME  FLYING. 

Love  flies,  fond  wretch,  across  the  desert  air ; 

Pursued  by  passionate  thoughts  and  phantom  fears, 
His  tender  heart,  though  young,  the  home  of  care. 

His  eyes  (now  hidden)  blind  with  many  tears  : 
To  what  less  hopeless  region  can  he  flee. 

Sweet  and  gentle  lole  ! 

Tell  me,  and  bid  me  fly ;  and  tell  me,  too. 

Why  Love  goes  weeping  when  he  looks  at  thee  ? 

Why  do  his  eyes,  like  mine,  forsake  heaven's  blue  ? 
Why  can  we  nothing  see. 

Save  that  one  spot  of  earth  where  Thou  mayst  be  ? 

Give  me  one  smile,  sweet  heart !  —  for  my  eyes  now 
Grow  dim,  like  Love's,  with  tears ;  and  I  could  fade 

Beneath  the  beauty  of  thy  gentle  brow, 
Into  the  everlasting  fatal  shade. 

Where  cold  Oblivion  near  pale  Death  is  laid. 
Could  I  but  win  one  tender  thought  from  thee. 

Sweet,  —  sweet  lole  ! 


176  SONGS. 


CXLYIL  — A  DREAMER'S  90X6. 

I  DREAM  of  thee  at  mom. 
When  all  the  earth  is  gay. 

Save  I,  who  live  a  life  forlorn. 
And  die  through  a  long  decay. 

I  dream  of  thee  at  noon, 

^Vhen  the  summer  sun  is  high, 

And  the  river  sings  a  sleepy  tune. 
And  the  woods  give  no  reply. 

I  dream  of  thee  at  eve. 

Beneath  the  fading  sun. 
When  even  the  winds  begin  to  grieve  ; 

And  I  dream  till  day  is  done. 

I  dream  of  thee  at  night. 

When  dreams,  men  say,  are  free : 
Alas,  thou  dear  —  too  dear  delight ! 

WTien  dream  I  not  of  thee  ? 


SONGS.  177 

CXLATIII.  — A  POET'S  THOUGHT. 

Tell  me,  what  is  a  poet's  thought  ? 

Is  it  on  the  sudden  born  ? 
Is  it  from  the  starlight  caught  ? 
Is  it  by  the  tempest  taught  ? 

Or  by  whispering  mom  ? 

Was  it  cradled  in  the  brain  ? 

Chained  awhile,  or  nursed  in  night  ? 
Was  it  wrought  with  toil  and  pain  ? 
Did  it  bloom  and  fade  again, 
*  Ere  it  burst  to  light  ? 

No  more  question  of  its  birth  : 

Rather  love  its  better  part ! 
'T  is  a  thing  of  sky  and  earth. 
Gathering  all  its  golden  worth 

From  the  Poet's  heart. 

CXLIX.— TO  A  LADY  ATTIRING  HERSEXF. 

For  whom  —  (too  happy  for  the  earth  or  skies  !) 
Dost  thou  adorn  thee  with  such  restless  care .'' 

Or  veil  the  starlight  beautj'  of  thine  eyes  ? 
Or  bind  in  fatal  wreaths  thy  golden  hair  ? 

He  dies  who  looks  on  thee,  ...  as  7  have  died, 

(Love's  ghost  and  victim,)  slain  by  thy  cold  pride ! 

He  dies,  O,  he  must  die  !  —  but  will  he  wander 
(As  I  have  done)  for  ever  round  thy  door.^ 

Or  on  thy  deadly  beauty  dream  and  ponder, 
(As  I  still  dream)  —  for  ever  and  evermore  ? 
12 


178  SONGS. 


CL.  — WILT  THOU  REMEMBER  ME? 

Wilt  thou  remember  me  when  I  am  gone,  — 
Gone  to  that  leaden  darkness,  where  men  lie, 

Shut  out  from  friends,  in  chambers  all  of  stone,  — 
Waiting  my  summons  from  the  awful  sky  ? 

Think  of  me,  sometimes,  sweet!  — all  cold,  —  all  pale, 
Beyond  the  power  of  pain,  —  a  Spirit  taken 
By  Death  to  regions  where  no  hearts  awaken ; 
Where  no  hopes  haunt  us,  —  no  wild  sorrows  wail,  — 
Where  even  thy  love  itself  can  then  no  more  avail ! 

CLI.  - 1  GO,  AND  SHE  DOTH  MISS  ME  NOT ! 

I  GO,  —  and  she  doth  miss  me  not ! 
So  shall  I  die,  and  be  forgot,  — 
Forgot,  as  is  some  sorrow  past, 
Or  cloud  by  fleeting  sickness  cast. 

Death,  and  the  all  absorbing  tomb. 
Will  hide  me  in  eternal  gloom  ; 
And  she  will  live  —  as  gay  —  alone. 
As  though  I  had  been  never  known ! 

'T  is  well,  perhaps,  that  this  should  be ; 

'T  is,  surely,  well  sad  thoughts  should  flee  ! 

Nor  would  I  wish  —  when  I  am  hid 

Underneath  the  coffin's  lid  — 

That  thou  shouldst  spoil  one  blooming  thought  for  me, 

Fair  and  for-aye-beloved  lole  ! 


SONGS.  179 

CLII.  — A  PARTING  SOXG. 

Wilt  thou  leave  thy  home  so  kind, 

For  the  Ocean  wild  ? 
Canst  thou  leave  me,  old  and  blind, 

Untender  child  ? 

Dost  thou  think  the  storms  above  thee 

Will  respect  my  son  ? 
Dost  thou  dream  the  world  will  love  thee, 

As  I  have  done  ? 

Boy,  through  nights  and  years  I  Ve  nursed  thee, 

How  —  thy  heart  should  tell, 
And  (come  what  will)  I  have  not  cursed  thee ; 

And  so  —  farewell ! 

CLIII  —  I  DIE  FOR  THY  SWEET  LOVE. 

I  DIE  for  thy  sweet  love  !     The  ground 

Not  panteth  so  for  summer  rain, 
As  I  for  one  soft  look  of  thine  ; 

And  yet  —  I  sigh  in  vain ! 

A  hundred  men  are  near  thee  now,  — 
Each  one,  perhaps,  surpassing  me  : 

But  who  doth  feel  a  thousandth  part 
Of  what  I  feel  for  thee  ? 

They  look  on  thee,  as  men  will  look. 

Who  round  the  wild  world  laugh  and  rove  ; 

I  only  think  how  sweet  't  would  be 
To  die  for  thy  sweet  love  ! 


180  SONGS. 

CUV.— WHAT  USE  IS  ALL  THE  LOVE  I  BEAR  THEEt 

What  use  is  all  the  love  I  bear  thee, 

Without  thy  sweet  return  ? 
What  use  in  Fate's  cold,  patient  lesson, 

Which  my  soul  cannot  learn  ? 

I  love  thee  —  as,  they  tell  in  story. 

Men  love  in  burning  climes  ; 
And  I  let  loose  my  wild  heart  before  thee, 

In  burning,  burning  rhymes ! 

Were  't  not  for  this,  my  chafed  Spirit 
Would  burst  its  bonds  and  flee ! 

And  Thou  7     Ah,  yes,  thy  gentle  heart 
Would  still  give  a  thought  to  me  ! 

CLV.-A  FAREWELL. 

Farewell  !  —  Now  Time  must  slowlier  move 
Than  e'er  since  this  dark  world  began  ! 

And  thou  wilt  give  thy  heaven  of  love 
Unto  another,  happier  man  ! 

And  then  —  I  never  more  will  see 

Those  eyes,  —  but  hide,  far  off,  my  pain  ; 

And  thou  wilt  have  forgotten  //jc. 
Or  smile  thou  seest  me  not  again. 

Live  happy,  in  thy  happier  lot ; 

And  I  will  strive,  (if  't  so  must  be,) 
To  think  't  is  well  to  be  forgot. 

Since  it  may  keep  a  pang  from  thee. 


181 


CLVI.  — SHE  SATE  BY  THE  RIVER  SPRINGS. 

She  sate  by  the  river  springs, 
And  bound  her  coal-black  hair ; 
And  she  sang,  as  the  cuckoo  sings, 
Alone,  —  in  the  Evening  air, 
With  a  patient  smile,  and  a  look  of  care, 
And  a  cheek  that  was  dusk,  not  fair :  — 
She  sate,  but  her  thoughts  had  wings, 
That  carried  her  sweet  despair 
Away  to  the  azure  plains, 
Where  Truth  and  the  angels  are  ; 
She  sang,  —  but  she  sang  in  vain  : 
Ah !  why  doth  she  sing  again  ? 

She  mourns,  like  the  sweet  wind  grieving  in 

The  pines  on  an  autumn  night ; 
She  will  fade,  like  the  fading  Evening, 
When  Hesper  is  blooming  bright : 
And  her  song  ?  —  it  must  take  its  flight ! 
So  pretty  a  song 
Must  die  ere  long, 
Like  a  too,  too  sharp  delight ! 

She  was  — like  the  rose  in  summer; 

She  is  —  like  the  lily  frail ; 
Yet,  they  '11  welcome  the  sweet  new-comer, 
Below,  in  the  regions  pale  ! 
And  the  ghost  will  forget  his  pain, 
As  he  roams  through  the  dusk  alone  : 
And  We  7  —  We  will  mourn  in  vain. 
O'er  the  Shadow  of  beauty  flown  ! 


182  SONGS. 


CLVII— A  REPROACH. 

Look  gently  on  me  !     Thou  dost  move 
(Yet  why  ?)  thine  eyes  away  ! 

Dost  dream  that  I  could  harm  thee,  Love, 
Or  thy  sweet  soul  betray  ? 

Know  better  !     Some  may  seek  their  end, 
Through  all  bad  deeds  that  be  : 

But  I — beyond  the  world  thy  friend  — 
Can  never  injure  thee  ! 

My  love,  my  woe,  I  not  deny  ; 

And  I  cannot  from  them  flee  : 
But  —  if  thou  biddest  —  I  can  die 

Far  —  far  away  from  thee  ! 

CLVm.  — A  CONCEIT. 

Sweet  sights,  sweet  scents,  sweet  sounds. 

All  to  my  sweet  Love  hie  : 
Some  go  their  viewless  rounds  ; 

Some  sail  before  her  eye  ; 
But  the  sweetest  —  O,  the  sweetest. 

Deep  in  her  bosom  lie  ! 

The  violet  comes  to  woo  her, 

With  an  eye  like  Heaven  above ; 

Night's  sweet  bird  mourns  unto  her  ; 
Soft  winds  all  round  her  rove  ; 

And  tender  —  tenderest  thoughts  pursue  her, 
With  a  voice  as  sweet  as  love  ! 


SONGS.  183 


CLIX.  — A  NIGHT  SONG. 


'T  IS  Night !  't  is  Night,  —  the  Hour  of  hours, 
When  Love  hes  down  with  folded  wings, 

By  Psyche  in  her  starless  bowers, 
And  down  his  fatal  arrows  flings,  — 

Those  bowers  whence  not  a  sound  is  heard, 

Save  only  from  the  bridal  bird, 

Who  'midst  that  utter  darkness  sings  : 

This  her  burthen  soft  and  clear,  — 

Love  is  here  !    Love  is  here  ! 

'T  is  Night !    The  moon  is  on  the  stream  ; 

Bright  spells  are  on  the  soothed  sea ; 
And  Hope,  the  child,  is  gone  to  dream 

Of  pleasures  which  may  never  be ! 
And  now  is  haggard  Care  asleep  ; 

Now  doth  the  widow  Sorrow  smile  ; 
And  slaves  are  hushed  in  slumber  deep, 

Forgetting  grief  and  toil  awhile  ! 

What  sight  can  fierj'-  morning  shew 

To  shame  the  stars  or  pale  moonlight  ? 
What  bounty  can  the  day  bestow. 

Like  that  which  falls  from  gentle  Night  ? 

Sweet  Lady,  sing  I  not  aright  ? 
O,  turn  and  tell  me  !  —  for  the  day 
Is  faint  and  fading  fast  away ; 
And  now  comes  back  the  Hour  of  hours. 

When  Love  his  lovelier  mistress  seeks. 
And  sighs,  like  winds  'mong  evening  flowers, 

Until  the  maiden  Silence  speaks  ! 


184  SONGS. 

Fair  girl,  methinks  —  nay,  hither  turn 
Those  eyes,  which  'mid  their  blushes  burn  — 
Methinks,  at  such  a  time  one's  heart 
Can  better  bear  both  sweet  and  smart,  — 
Love's  look  —  the  first  —  which  never  dieth, 
Or  Death  —  who  comes  when  Beauty  flieth. 
When  strength  is  slain,  when  youth  is  past, 
And  all,  save  Truth,  is  lost  at  last ! 


CLX.— TO  ADELAIDE. 

Child  of  my  heart !     My  sweet,  beloved  First-born ! 
Thou  dove  who  tidings  bring'st  of  calmer  hours  ! 
Thou  rainbow  who  dost  shine  when  all  the  showers 
Are  past,  —  or  passing  !     Rose  which  hath  no  thorn, — 
No  spot,  no  blemish,  —  pure,  and  unforlorn  ! 
Untouched,  untainted  !     O  my  Flower  of  flowers  ! 
More  welcome  than  to  bees  are  summer  bowers, 
To  stranded  seamen  life-assuring  morn  ! 
Welcome,  —  a  thousand  welcomes  !     Care,  who  clings 
Round  all,  seems  loosening  now  its  serpent  fold  : 
New  hope  springs  upward  ;  and  the  bright  World  seems 
Cast  back  into  a  youth  of  endless  springs  ! 
Sweet  mother,  is  it  so  ?  —  or  grow  I  old, 
Bewildered  in  divine  Elysian  dreams  ? 

November,  1825. 


SONGS.  185 


CLXI.  — A  PRAYER  IN  SICKNESS. 

Send  down  thy  winged  angel,  God  ! 

Amidst  this  night  so  wild  ; 
And  bid  him  come  where  now  we  watch, 

And  breathe  upon  our  child  ! 

She  lies  upon  her  pillow,  pale. 

And  moans  within  her  sleep. 
Or  wakeneth  with  a  patient  smile, 

And  striveth  not  to  weep ! 

How  gentle  and  how  good  a  child 

She  is,  we  know  too  well. 
And  dearer  to  her  parents'  hearts 

Than  our  weak  words  can  tell. 

We  love,  —  we  watch  throughout  the  night, 

To  aid,  when  need  may  be ; 
We  hope,  —  and  have  despaired,  at  times ; 

But  now  we  turn  to  Thee  ! 

Send  down  thy  sweet-souled  angel,  God  ! 

Amidst  the  darkness  wild, 
And  bid  him  soothe  our  souls  to-night, 

And  heal  our  gentle  child  ! 


186  SONGS. 

CLXn.— TO  A  VOYAGER. 

My  Love  is  journeying  o'er  the  sea ! 

God  guard  her  on  the  deep  ! 
And  force  the  Ocean  harms  to  flee, 

And  bid  the  tempests  sleep  ! 
To-night  she  leaves  our  English  strand, 
To  sail  unto  the  Indian  land  ! 

She  goes,  all  ignorant  of  my  love  ! 

And  fit  it  thus  should  be ! 
For  why  should  waves  or  winds  above 

Bear  hopeless  sighs  from  me  ? 
'T  is  better  I  should  bear — in  vain, 
Than  she  should  answer  —  pain  for  pain  ! 

Bright  Stars,  look  gently  on  her  sleep ! 

Sweet  guardian  Heaven,  enfold  her  round ; 
And  quell  all  madness  in  the  deep  ; 

And  banish  from  the  air  its  sound ! 
O,  guard  her  from  all  ill,  —  all  strife  ; 
And  bless  her  through  the  bloom  of  life ! 

CLXIII.  — HIS  LOVE  IS  HIDDEN. 

His  love  is  hidden,  like  the  springs 

Which  lie  in  Earth's  deep  heart  below ; 

And  murmur  there  a  thousand  things 
Which  nought  above  may  hear  or  know. 

'T  is  hid,  not  buried !  Without  sound, 
Or  light,  or  limit,  night  and  day. 

It  (like  the  dark  springs  underground) 
Runs,  ebbs  not,  and  ne'er  can  decay  ! 


SONGS.  187 

CLXJV  —SONG  FROM  A  PLAY. 

Why  art  thou,  Love !  so  fair,  so  young  ? 
Why  is  that  sad,  sweet  music  hung, 
For  ever,  on  thy  gentle  tongue  ? 

Why  art  thou  fond  ?     Why  art  thou  fair  ? 
Why  sitteth,  in  thy  soft  eye.  Care  ? 
Why  smil'st  thou  in  such  sweet  despair  ? 

Youth,  Beauty  fade,  —  like  summer  roses  : 
Sad  music  sadder  love  discloses  : 
Dark  Care  in  darker  death  reposes  ! 

All  's  vain  !  the  rough  world  careth  not 
For  thee,  —  for  me,  —  for  our  dark  lot. 
We  love.  Sweet,  but  to  be  forgot ! 

We  love,  —  and  meet  the  world's  sharp  scorn  : 
We  live,  —  to  die  some  common  mom, — 
Unknown,  unwept,  and  still  forlorn  ! 
Why,  dear  one,  why,  —  why  were  we  born  } 

CLXV.  — SISTER,  I   CANNOT  READ  TO-DAY. 

Sister,  I  cannot  read  to-day! 

Before  my  eyes  the  letters  stream ; 
Now,  —  one  by  one,  —  they  fade  away. 

Like  shadows  in  a  dream  : 
All  seems  a  fancy,  half  forgot : 
Sweet  sister,  do  I  dream  or  not  } 

I  cannot  work  ;  I  cannot  rest ; 

I  cannot  sing  —  nor  think,  to-day  : 


188  SONGS. 

The  wild  heart  panteth  in  my  breast. 

As  though  't  would  break  away. 
Why  —  wherefore  — Ah,  girl !  ease  my  woe, 
And  tell  me  —  why  he  tarrieth  so ! 


CLXVr.  — SEA-SHORE  STANZAS. 

Methinks  I  fain  would  lie  by  the  lone  Sea, 

And  hear  the  waters  their  white  music  weave ! 

Methinks  it  were  a  pleasant  thing  to  grieve, 

So  that  our  sorrows  might  companioned  be 

By  that  strange  harmony 

Of  winds  and  billows,  and  the  living  sound 

Sent  down  from  Heaven  when  the  Thunder  speaks, 

Unto  the  listening  shores  and  torrent  creeks. 

When  the  swollen  Sea  doth  strive  to  burst  his  bound  ! 

Methinks,  when  tempests  come  and  kiss  the  Ocean, 

Until  the  vast  and  terrible  billows  wake, 

I  see  the  writhing  of  that  curled  snake. 

Which  men  of  old  believed,  —  and  my  emotion 

Warreth  within  me,  till  the  fable  reigns 

God  of  my  fancy,  and  my  curdling  veins 

Do  homage  to  that  serpent  old. 

Which  clasped  the  great  world  in  its  fold. 

And  brooded  over  earth,  and  the  charmed  sea. 

Like  endless,  restless,  drear  Eternity ! 


SONGS.  189 


CLXVII.  — ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD. 

Hither  come,  at  close  of  day, 

And  o'er  this  dust,  sweet  Mothers,  pray ! 
A  little  infant  lies  within, 
Who  never  knew  the  name  of  sin. 

Beloved,  —  bright,  —  and  all  our  own  ; 

Like  morning  fair,  —  and  sooner  flown  ! 

No  leaves  or  garlands  wither  here. 

Like  those  in  foreign  lands ; 
No  marble  hides  our  dear  one's  bier, 

The  work  of  alien  hands  : 
The  months  it  lived,  the  name  it  bore, 
The  silver  telleth,  —  nothing  more  ! 

No  more  ;  —  yet  Silence  stalketh  round 

This  vault  so  dim  and  deep, 
And  Death  keeps  watch  without  a  sound. 

Where  all  lie  pale  and  sleep  ; 
But  palest  here,  and  latest  hid. 
Is  He  —  beneath  this  coffin  lid. 

How  fair  he  was,  —  how  very  fair,  — 

What  dreams  we  pondered  o'er. 
Making  his  life  so  long  and  clear, 

His  fortunes  flowing  o'er  ; 
Our  hopes —  (that  he  would  happy  be, 

When  we  ourselves  were  old,) 
The  scenes  we  saw,  or  hoped  to  see, — 

They  're  soon  and  sadly  told. 
All  was  a  dream  !  —  it  came  and  fled, 
And  left  us  here,  among  the  dead  ! 


190  SONGS. 

Pray,  Mothers,  pray,  at  close  of  day. 
While  we,  sad  parents,  weep  alway ! 
Pray,  too,  (and  softly  be  't  and  long,) 
That  all  your  babes,  now  fair  and  strong, 
May  blossom  like  —  not  hke  the  rose. 
For  that  doth  fade  when  summer  goes,  — 
('T  was  thus  our  pretty  infant  died, 
The  summer  and  its  mother's  pride  !) 
But,  like  some  stern,  enduring  tree. 
That  reacheth  its  green  century, 
May  grow,  may  flourish,  —  then  decay, 
After  a  long,  calm,  happy  day. 
Made  happier  by  good  deeds  to  men, 
And  hopes  in  heaven  to  meet  again ! 

Pray !  —  From  the  happy,  prayer  is  due  ; 
While  we  —  ('t  is  all  we  now  can  do !) 
Will  check  our  tears,  and  pray  with  you. 


CLXVni.— TO  A  POETESS. 

Dreadst  thou  lest  thou  shouldst  die  unknown  ? 

What  matter  ?     All  the  strength  of  Fame 
And  Death  have  this  poor  power  alone, — 

To  give  thee  an  uncertain  name. 

The  critic  dull  and  envious  bard 
Will  quarrel  o'er  thine  ashes  dear ; 

That  past,  —  thy  single  sad  reward 
Must  be  some  lonely  lover's  tear  1 


SONGS.  191 

CLXIX.  — A  PETITION  TO  TIME. 

ToTJCH  US  gently,  Time  ! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently,  —  as  we  sometimes  glide 

Through  a  quiet  dream  ! 
Humble  voyagers  are  We, 
Husband,  wife,  and  children  three  — 
(One  is  lost,  —  an  angel,  fled 
To  the  azure  overhead  !) 

Touch  us  gently.  Time ! 

We  've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings : 
Our  ambition,  our  content, 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
Humble  voyagers  are  We, 
O'er  Life's  dim,  unsounded  sea. 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime  ;  — 
Touch  us  gently^  gentle  Time  ! 

CLXX.  — A  QUESTION  AND  REPLY. 

"  What  is  there  on  this  dark,  cold  bank, 

That  thou  so  long  hast  sought .-' 
Methinks  these  briers  and  rushes  dank,  — 
This  hollow,  with  the  wild  grass  rank,  — 

Shew  nothing  worth  a  thought !  " 

"  I  seek  what  thou  canst  value  not. 

What  thou  canst  never  see,  — 
Soft  eyes,  by  all  but  me  forgot. 
Which  here  —  ay,  on  this  dark,  cold  spot  — 

Bent  their  last  look  on  me  !  " 


192  SONGS. 


CLXXI.  — WISHES. 


Sweet  be  her  dreams,  the  fair,  the  young ! 

Grace,  Beauty,  breathe  upon  her  ! 
Music,  haunt  thou  about  her  tongue  ! 

Life,  fill  her  path  with  honor  ! 

All  golden  thoughts,  all  wealth  of  days. 
Truth,  Friendship,  Love,  surround  her  ! 

So  may  she  smile  till  life  be  closed. 
And  Angel  hands  have  crowned  her ! 


CLXXn.  — AN  EPITAPH. 

He  died,  and  left  the  world  behind ! 

His  once  wild  heart  is  cold  ! 
His  once  keen  eye  is  quelled  and  blind ! 

What  more  ?  —  His  tale  is  told. 

He  came,  and,  baring  his  heaven-bright  thought. 

He  earned  the  base  World's  ban  : 
And,  —  having  vainly  lived  and  taught, 

Gave  place  to  a  meaner  man  ! 


ADDITIONAL    SONGS 


13 


ADDITIONAL   SONGS. 


l  — a  song  for  the  new  year. 

Hark! 

The  Old  Year  is  gone  ! 

And  the  young  New  Year  is  coming ! 

Through  minutes,  and  days,  and  unknown  skies, 

My  soul  on  her  forward  journey  flies ; 

Over  the  regions  of  rain  and  snow ; 

And  beyond  where  the  wild  March-trumpets  blow 

And  I  see  the  meadows,  all  cowslip-strewn ; 

And  I  dream  of  the  dove  in  the  greenwood  lone  ; 

And  the  wild  bee  humming  :  — 

And  all  because  the  New  Year  is  coming  ! 

The  Winter  is  cold,  the  Winter  is  gray. 

But  he  hath  not  a  sound  on  his  tongue  to-day : 

The  son  of  the  stormy  Autumn,  he 

Totters  about  on  a  palsied  knee. 

With  a  frozen  heart  and  a  feeble  head  : 

Let  us  pierce  a  barrel  and  drink  him  dead ! 


196  SONGS. 

The  fresh  New  Year  is  almost  here  ; 
Let  us  warm  him  with  mistletoe  boughs,  my  dear ! 
Let  us  welcome  him  hither,  with  songs  and  wine, 
Who  holdeth  such  joys  in  his  arms  divine  I 

What  is  the  Past,  —  to  you,  or  me, 
But  a  thing  that  was,  and  was  to  be  ? 
And  now  it  is  gone  to  a  world  unknown ; 
Its  deeds  are  done  ;  its  flight  is  flown  ! 

Hark  to  The  Past !     In  a  bitter  tone, 
It  crieth,  "  The  good  Old  Year  is  flown,"  — 
The  sire  of  a  thousand  thoughtful  hours. 
Of  a  thousand  songs,  of  a  thousand  flowers ! 
Ah  !  why,  thou  ungrateful  child  of  rhyme, 
Rail'st  thou  at  the  deeds  of  our  father  Time  ? 
Hath  he  not  fed  thee,  day  by  day. 
With  fancies  that  soothe  thy  soul  alway  ? 
Hath  he  not  'wakened,  with  pleasant  pain, 
The  Muse  that  slept  in  thy  teeming  brain  ? 
Hath  he  not  —  ah  !  dost  thou  forget 
All  the  amount  of  the  mighty  debt  ? 

Hush,  hush  !  —  The  little  J  owe  to  Time 

I  '11  pay  him,  some  day,  with  a  moody  rhyme,  — 

Full  of  phantasmas,  dark  and  drear. 

As  the  shadows  thrown  down  by  the  old  Old  Year,- 

Dim  as  the  echoes  that  lately  fell 

From  the  deep  Night's  funereal  bell, 

Sounding  hollow  o'er  hill  and  vale. 

Like  the  close  of  a  mournful  tale ! 


SONGS.  197 

....  In  the  mean  time,  —  speak,  trump  and  drum  ! 
The  Year  is  gone  !  the  Year  is  come  ! 
The  fresh  New  Year,  the  bright  New  Year, 
That  telleth  of  hope  and  joy,  my  dear ! 
Let  us  model  our  spirit  to  chance  and  change, 
Let  us  lesson  our  spirit  to  hope,  and  range 
Through  pleasures  tocome,  —  through  years  unknown ; 
But  never  forget  the  time  that  's  flown ! 


n.  -LONDON. 

O,  WHEN  I  was  a  little  boy, 

How  often  was  I  told 
Of  London,  and  its  silver  walls. 

And  pavements  all  of  gold  ; 
Of  women  all  so  beautiful. 

And  men  so  true  and  bold. 
And  how  all  things  'tween  earth  and  sky 

Were  therein  bought  and  sold. 

And  so  I  came  to  London  : 

'T  was  on  a  summer's  day. 
And  I  walked  at  times  and  rode  at  times, 

And  whistled  all  the  way  ; 
And  the  blood  rushed  to  my  head. 

When  Ben,  the  wagoner,  did  say, — 
"  Here  's  London,  boy,  the  Queen  of  towns, 

As  proud  as  she  is  gay." 


198  SONGS. 

I  listened,  and  I  looked  about, 

And  questioned,  and  —  behold  ! 
The  walls  were  not  of  silver. 

The  pavement  was  not  gold ; 
But  women,  O,  so  beautiful. 

And  —  may  I  say  —  so  bold, 
I  saw,  and  Ben  said,  —  "All  things  here 

Are  to  be  bought  and  sold." 

And  I  found  they  sold  the  dearest  things ; 

The  mother  sold  her  child, 
And  the  sailor  sold  his  life  away 

To  plough  the  waters  wild ; 
And  Captains  sold  commissions 

To  young  gentlemen  so  mild. 
And  some  thieves  sold  their  brother  thieves. 

Who  hanged  were  or  exiled. 

And  critics  sold  their  paragraphs ; 

And  poets  sold  their  lays ; 
And  great  men  sold  their  little  men 

With  votes  of  "Ays "  and  "  Nays " ; 
And  parsons  sold  their  holy  words. 

And  blessed  rich  men's  ways ; 
And  women  sold  their  love  —  (for  life, 

Or  only  a  few  days). 

'T  was  thus  with  all :  —  For  gold,  bright  Art 

Her  radiant  flag  unfurled  ; 
And  the  young  rose  let  its  unblown  leaves 

Be  cankered  and  uncurled  ; 


SONGS.  199 

For  gold,  against  the  tender  heart 

The  liar's  darts  were  hurled  ; 
And  soldiers,  whilst  Fame's  trumpet  blew. 

Dared  death  across  the  world. 

And  so,  farewell  to  London ! 

Where  men  do  sell  and  buy 
All  things  that  are  (of  good  and  bad) 

Beneath  the  awful  sky  ; 
Where  some  win  wealth,  and  many  want ; 

Some  laugh,  and  many  sigh  : 
Till,  at  last,  all  folks,  from  king  to  clown. 

Shut  up  their  books,  and  —  die ! 


m.— MY  OLD  ARIM-CHAIR. 

Let  poets  coin  their  golden  dreams  ; 
Let  lovers  weave  their  vernal  themes ; 

And  paint  the  earth  all  fair. 
To  me  no  such  bright  fancies  throng : 
I  sing  a  humble  hearthstone  song 

Of  thee,  —  my  old  Arm-chair  ! 

Poor  —  faded  —  ragged  —  crazy  —  old,  — 
Thou  'rt  yet  worth  thrice  thy  weight  in  gold  ; 

Ay,  though  thy  back  be  bare  : 
For  thou  hast  held  a  world  of  worth, 
A  load  of  heavenly  human  earth,  — 

My  old  Arm-chair ! 


200  SONGS. 

Here  sate,  —  ah,  many  a  year  ago,  — 
When,  young,  I  nothing  cared  to  know 

Of  life,  or  its  great  aim, — 
Friends  (gentle  hearts)  who  smiled  and  shed 
Brief  sunshine  on  my  boyish  head  : 

At  last  the  wild  clouds  came, — 

And  vain  desires,  and  hopes  dismayed. 
And  fears  that  cast  the  earth  in  shade, 

My  heart  did  fret ; 
And  dreaming  wonders,  foul  and  fair ; 
And  who  then  filled  mine  ancient  cha.ir, 

I  now  forget. 

Then  Love  came  —  Love !  —  without  his  wings. 
Low  murmuring  here  a  thousand  things 

Of  one  I  once  thought  fair : 
'T  was  here  he  laughed,  and  bound  my  eyes. 
Taking  me,  boy,  by  sweet  surprise. 

Here,  —  in  my  own  Arm-chair. 

How  I  escaped  from  that  soft  pain, 
And  (nothing  lessoned)  fell  again 

Into  another  snare. 
And  how  again  Fate  set  me  free. 
Are  secrets  'tween  my  soul  and  me,  — 

Me,  and  my  old  Arm-chair. 

Years  fade :  —  Old  Time  doth  all  he  can : 
The  soft  youth  hardens  into  man ; 
The  vapor  Fame 


SONGS.  201 

Dissolves ;  Care's  scars  indent  our  brow ; 
Friends  fail  us  in  our  need  :  —  but  Thou 
Art  still  the  same. 

Thou  bring'st  calm  thoughts ;  strange  dreamings ;  sleep ; 
And  fancies  subtle  (sometimes  deep) ; 

And  the  unseen  Air 
Which  round  thy  honored  tatters  plays 
Bears  with  it  thoughts  of  other  days, 

That  quell  despair. 

Let  the  world  turn,  then,  —  wrong  or  right ; 
Let  the  hired  critic  spit  his  spite : 

With  thee,  old  friend. 
With  thee,  companion  of  my  heart, 
I  '11  still  try  on  the  honest  part, 

Unto  the  end ! 


SONGS. 


iv.  — il  penseroso  and  l'allegro. 

(night.) 
Old  Thames !  thy  merry  waters  run 
Gloomily  now,  without  star  or  sun ! 
The  wind  blows  o'er  thee,  wild  and  loud. 
And  Heaven  is  in  its  death-black  shroud ; 
And  the  rain  comes  down  with  all  its  might. 
Darkening  the  face  of  the  sullen  Night. 

Midnight  dies !     There  booms  a  sound, 

From  all  the  church-towers  thundering  round  : 

Their  echoes  into  each  other  run. 

And  sing  out  the  grand  Night's  awful  "  one  " ! 

Saint  Bride,  —  Saint  Sepulchre,  —  great  Saint  Paul, 

Unto  each  other,  in  chorus,  call ! 

Who  speaks  ?  —  'T  was  nothing :  —  the  patrol  grim 
Moves  stealthily  over  the  pavement  dim : 
The  debtor  dreams  of  the  gripe  of  law ; 
The  harlot  goes  staggering  to  her  straw  ; 
And  the  drunken  robber  and  beggar  bold 
Laugh  loud,  as  they  limp  by  the  Bailey  Old. 

Hark,  —  I  hear  the  blood  in  a  felon's  heart ! 
I  see  him  shiver,  —  and  heave,  —  and  start 
(Does  he  cry?)  from  his  last  short,  bitter  slumber, 
To  find  that  his  days  have  reached  their  number,  — 
To  feel  that  there  comes,  with  the  morning  text. 
Blind  death,  and  the  scaffold,  and  then  —  what  next  ? 


SONGS.  203 

Sound,  stormy  Autumn !     Brazen  bell, 

Into  the  morning  send  your  knell ! 

Mourn,  Thames  !  keep  firm  your  chant  of  sorrow : 

Mourn,  men !  for  a  fellow-man  dies  to-morrow. 

Alas  1  none  mourn ;  none  care  :  —  the  debt 

Of  pity  the  whole  wide  world  forget ! 

(morning.) 
...  'T  is  dawn,  —  't  is  Day !     In  floods  of  light 
He  drives  back  the  dark  and  shrinking  Night. 
The  clouds  ?  —  they  're  lost.   The  rains  ?  —  they  're  fled ; 
And  the  streets  are  alive  with  a  busy  tread : 
And  thousands  are  thronging,  with  gossip  gay. 
To  see  how  a  felon  wiU  die  to-day. 

The  thief  is  abroad  in  his  last  new  dress, 

Earning  his  bread  in  the  thickest  press ; 

The  idler  is  there,  and  the  painter  fine. 

Studying  a  look  for  his  next  design  ; 

The  fighter,  the  brawler,  the  drover  strong ; 

And  all  curse  that  the  felon  should  stay  so  long. 

At  last,  —  he  comes !     With  a  heavy  tread. 

He  mounts, — he  reels,  —  he  drops,  —  he  's  dead! 

The  show  is  over !  —  the  crowd  depart, 

Each  with  a  laugh  and  a  merry  heart. 

—  Hark  1  merrily  now  the  bells  are  ringing : 

The  Thames  on  his  careless  way  is  springing  : 

The  bird  on  the  chimney-top  is  singing : 

Now,  who  will  say 

That  Earth  is  not  gay. 

Or  that  Heaven  is  not  brighter  than  yesterday  ? 


204  SONGS. 


v.— wrnirN  and  wixHOFr. 


A    LONDON    LYRIC. 


(without.) 

The  winds  are  bitter ;  the  skies  are  wild ; 

From  the  roof  comes  plunging  the  drowning  rain 
Without,  in  tatters,  the  world's  poor  child 

Sobbeth  abroad  her  grief,  her  pain  ! 
No  one  heareth  her,  no  one  heedeth  her : 

But  Hunger,  her  friend,  with  his  bony  hand, 
Grasps  her  throat,  whispering  huskily,  — 

"  What  dost  Thou  in  a  Christian  land  ?  " 

(within.) 
The  skies  are  wild,  and  the  blast  is  cold  ; 

Yet  riot  and  luxury  brawl  within  : 
Slaves  are  waiting,  in  crimson  and  gold, 

Waiting  the  nod  of  a  child  of  sin. 
The  fire  is  crackling,  wine  is  bubbling 

Up  in  each  glass  to  its  beaded  brim : 
The  jesters  are  laughing,  the  parasites  quaffing 

"  Happiness,"  —  "  honor,"  —  and  all  for  him  ! 

(without.) 
She  who  is  slain  in  the  winter  weather, 
Ah !  she  once  had  a  village  fame ; 


SONGS.  205 

Listened  to  love  on  the  moonlit  heather ; 

Had  gentleness,  —  vanity,  —  maiden  shame  : 
Now,  her  allies  are  the  Tempest  howling ; 

Prodigal's  curses  ;  self-disdain  ; 
Poverty ;  misery :  Well,  —  no  matter ; 

There  is  an  end  unto  every  pain ! 

The  harlot's  fame  was  her  doom  to-day, 

Disdain,  —  despair  ;  by  to-morrow's  light 
The  ragged  boards  and  the  pauper's  pall ; 

And  so  she  '11  be  given  to  dusty  night ! 
.  • .  Without  a  tear  or  a  human  sigh, 

She  's  gone,  —  poor  life  and  its  "  fever  "  o'er ! 
So,  let  her  in  calm  oblivion  lie  ; 

While  the  world  runs  merry  £is  heretofore  ! 

(within.) 
He  who  yon  lordly  feast  enjoyeth, 

He  who  doth  rest  on  his  couch  of  down, 
He  it  was  who  threw  the  forsaken 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  town  : 
Liar,  —  betrayer,  —  false  as  cruel, 

What  is  the  doom  for  his  dastard  sin  ? 
His  peers,  they  scorn  ?  —  high  dames,  they  shun  him  ? 

—  Unbar  yon  palace,  and  gaze  within. 

Tliere,  —  yet  his  deeds  are  all  trumpet-sounded,  — 

There,  upon  silken  seats  recline 
Maidens  as  fair  as  the  summer  morning, 

Watching  him  rise  from  the  sparkling  wine. 


SONGS. 


Mothers  all  proffer  their  stainless  daughters  ; 

Men  of  high  honor  salute  him  "  friend  "  ; 
Skies !  O,  where  are  your  cleansing  waters  ? 

World !  O,  where  do  thy  wonders  end  ? 


VI.  — A  PANEGYRIC  ON  ALR 

ADDKBSSBD   TO  W.   L.   BIRKBECK,   BSO. 

I  HAVE  a  Friend  who  loveth  me, 
And  sendeth  me  Ale  of  Trinitie  : 
A  very  good  fellow  is  my  true  friend, 
With  talents  and  virtues  without  end  ; 
Filled  with  Learning's  very  best  seed  ; 
Ready  to  think  (or  drink,  at  need)  ; 
In  short,  a  very  good  fellow  indeed  : 
But  the  best  of  all  is,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
That  he  yieldeth  the  Ale  of  Trinitie. 

O,  Trinitie  Ale  is  stout  and  good, 

Whether  in  bottle  it  be  or  wood  : 

'T  is  good  at  morning,  't  is  good  at  night ; 

(Ye  should  drink  whilst  the  liquor  is  bubbling  bright :) 

'T  is  good  for  man,  woman,  and  child. 

Being  neither  too  strong,  nor  yet  too  mild  : 

It  strengthens  the  body  ;  it  strengthens  the  mind  ; 

And  hitteth  the  toper's  taste  refined. 

Once,  —  once,  I  believed  that  the  famous  Cam 
Was  a  riddle,  a  cheat,  an  enormous  Flam, 


SONGS.  207 

Vamped  up  by  tutors  of  Hall  and  College  ; 

(Who  've  a  great  deal  of  learning  and  little  knowledge ;) 

But  now  —  I  acknowledge,  with  tears  of  shame, 

That  the  river  it  meriteth  thrice  its  fame ; 

For,  with  it,  —  though  seemingly  poor  and  pale, 

Men  manufacture  —  The  Mighty  Ale  ! 

Alma  Mater  !     Thou  mother  kind, 
Who  traineth  the  youthful  human  mind 
(By  circles,  and  squares,  and  classic  stories,) 
Until  it  arrives  at  Earth's  high  glories, 
Who,  —  who,  amongst  all  thy  children,  dare 
With  the  bright  Trinitie  boys  compare  ? 
Mingling  their  ale  with  bookish  learning. 
They  acquire  by  such  means  keen  discerning. 
And  thus  (in  a  circle  arguing)  steer 
Between  the  extremes  of  books  and  beer. 
Other  men,  —  somehow  or  other,  —  pine 
Whether  they  trust  to  Greek  or  wine. 

O,  in  truth,  it  gladdens  the  heart  to  see 

What  may  spring  from  the  Ale  of  Trinitie,  — 

A  scholar,  —  a  fellow,  —  a  rector  blithe, 

(Fit  to  take  a7iy  amount  of  tithe,)  — 

Perhaps  a  bishop,  —  perhaps,  by  grace. 

One  may  mount  to  the  Archiepiscopal  place, 

And  wield  the  crosier,  an  awful  thing, 

The  envy  of  all,  and  —  the  parsons'  King  ! 

O  Jove  !  who  would  struggle  with  Learning  pale. 

That  could  beat  down  the  world  by  the  strength  of  Ale ! 


208  SONGS. 

For  me,  —  I  avow,  could  my  thoughtless  prime 
Come  back  with  the  wisdom  of  mournful  time, 
I  'd  labor  —  1  'd  toil  —  by  night  and  day, 
(Mixing  liquor  and  books  away,) 
Till  I  conquered  that  high  and  proud  degree, 
M.  A.  (Master  of  Ale)  of  Trinitie. 

Ale !     Ale,  if  properly  understood, 
Promoteth  a  brotherly  neighborhood. 
Now,  what  can  be  better,  on  winter  night. 
When  the  fagot  is  blazing  bright. 
And  your  friend  is  perplexed  how  to  kill  the  time, 
With  "  Useful  Knowledge,"  or  idle  rhyme, 
To  step  in  and  say,  —  "  Neighbor,  I  think 
Your  Trinitie  Ale  must  be  fit  to  drink  ? 
Let 's  try  it."     He  answers,  "  With  all  my  soul ! ' 
And  in  the  capacious  tumblers  roll : 
Hark,  —  to  the  music  rich  and  rare  ! 
.Note,  — how  it  stealeth  the  sting  from  Care  I 
Behold, —  both  Pride  and  Prudery  bend. 
And  each  man  groweth  a  warmer  friend. 
I  repeat  it,  that  Ale,  if  understood, 
Promoteth  a  brotherly  neighborhood. 
Why,  some  time  since,  we  were  enemies  all 
In  our  small  village,  —  the  short,  the  tall ; 
The  old,  the  young ;  the  dull,  the  bright ; 
Churchman,  Simeonite,  Puseyite  : 
But  now,  we  are  knit  into  one  firm  band. 
By  Sir  John  Barleycorn's  high  command  : 
No  more  envy,  no  more  strife. 
But  tipplers  honest  and  friends  for  life. 


SONGS.  209 

It  would  do  good  both  to  your  head  and  heart, 

Could  you  see  how  each  playeth  his  social  part, 

In  a  bumper,  a  song,  or  a  round  of  wit. 

Jolly  philosophers  !  here  we  sit,  — 

Ten  reformed  tea-totallers,  all 

Pulled  up  before  Chief-Magistrate  Hall, 

Merely  for  moistening  a  dry  lip ; 

And  again  before  Justice  Broderip  ; 

Ten  bold  widowers,  each  forlorn 

Until  he  had  been  at  Highgate  sworn  ; 

Ten  thick  squires,  with  brains  made  clear 

By  the  irresistible  strength  of  beer  ; 

Ten  plurality  Vicars  (sent 

By  Heaven,  —  to  take  commutation  rent) ; 

Ten  prebendaries  ;  Canons  ten  ; 

(All  very  fat,  virtuous  men)  : 

And,  last  of  us,  / —  who  offer  to  thee 

(I,  —  scribe  of  this  choice  society), 

With  grateful  glee, 

Postage  free. 

These  rhymes  for  thy  dozens  of  Trinitie. 


14 


210  SONGS. 


VII. -THE  PEARL- WEARER.* 

Within  the  midnight  of  her  hair, 

Half  hidden  in  its  deepest  deeps, 

A  single,  peerless,  priceless  pearl, 

(All  filmy-eyed,)  for  ever  sleeps. 

Without  the  diamond's  sparkling  eyes, 

The  ruby's  blushes,  —  there  it  lies. 

Modest  as  the  tender  dawn, 

When  her  purple  veil  's  withdrawn, — 

The  flower  of  gems,  a  lily  cold  and  pale  ! 

Yet,  —  what  doth  all  avail  ? 

All  its  beauty,  all  its  grace  .? 

All  the  honors  of  its  place  ? 

He  who  plucked  it  from  its  bed. 

In  the  far  blue  Indian  ocean, 

Lieth,  without  life  or  motion, 

In  his  earthy  dwelling,  —  dead  ! 

And  his  children,  one  by  one, 

When  they  look  upon  the  sun. 

Curse  the  toil,  by  which  he  drew 

The  treasure  from  its  bed  of  blue. 


*  It  is  recorded  of  a  pearl-diver,  that  he  died  (from  over-exer- 
tion) immediately  after  he  had  reached  land,  having  brought  up 
with  him,  amongst  other  shells,  one  that  contained  a  pearl  of  sur- 
passing size  and  beauty. 


SONGS.  211 

Gentle  Bride,  no  longer  wear, 
In  thy  night-black  odorous  hair, 
Such  a  spoil.     It  is  not  fit 
That  a  tender  soul  should  sit 
Under  such  accursed  gem ! 
What  need'st  thou  a  diadem  ?  — 
Thou,  within  whose  eastern  eyes 
Thought  (a  starry  Genius)  lies  ?  — 
Thou,  whom  Beauty  has  arrayed  ?  — 
Thou,  whom  Love  and  Truth  have  made 
Beautiful,  —  in  whom  we  trace 
Woman's  softness  ;  angel's  grace  ; 
All  we  hope  for ;  all  that  streams 
Upon  us  in  our  haunted  dreams  ? 

O  sweet  Lady  !  cast  aside, 
With  a  gentle,  noble  pride, 
All  to  sin  or  pain  allied  ! 
Let  the  wild-eyed  conqueror  wear 
The  bloody  laurel  in  his  hair  ! 
Let  the  black  and  snaky  vine 
'Round  the  drinker's  temples  twine ! 
Let  the  slave-begotten  gold 
Weigh  on  bosoms  hard  and  cold  ! 
But  be  THOU  for  ever  known 
By  thy  natural  light  alone  ! 


212  SONGS. 


Vin.  — A  FAREWELL  TO  HOMR 

The  Autumn  winds  are  sounding  wild  ;  — 
Sad  Nature,  mourn'st  thou  for  thy  child, 
From  the  fresh  air  and  green  fields  driven, 
And  all  the  beauteous  face  of  Heaven, 
Into  the  wilderness  of  stone  ; 
Destined  there  to  dwell  alone. 
Toiling  upwards,  day  by  day. 
For  the  Fame  that  lives  for  aye. 
And  for  Fortune  (golden  sun). 
And  all  else  that  must  be  won  ? 

Evening  falls :  the  sky  is  wild  ; 
And  cloud  on  mountain  cloud  is  piled, 
And  the  black  Tempest  o'er  the  plain 
Comes  moaning  in  his  wrath  of  rain,  — 
Comes  chiding,  like  an  angry  friend, 
That  I  should  leave  thee.  Old  Grove  End  ! 
Ah,  well !     Time  toas,  when  thou  and  I 
Were  all  in  all,  beneath  the  sky. 
Unto  each  other  ;  when  I  played 
Upon  thy  grass ;  beneath  thy  shade  ; 
Before  thy  hundred  branching  vines  ; 
And  where  Ayr's  wanderer  rose  entwines 
The  gray  wall  in  its  thorny  arms. 
And  loved  and  laughed  on  all  thy  charms ! 
Farewell !  —  Farewell  each  path  and  lawn. 
Each  tree  whose  music  met  the  dawn,  — 


SONGS.  213 

Laburnums,  with  your  drops  of  gold  ; 

Broad  Plane  ;  Dark  Mulberry,  rich  and  old, 

Rough-visaged,  raining  blood-red  fruit, 

(Which  ladies'  lips  did  sometimes  suit, 

As  sweet  tunes  match  the  sweeter  lute  :) 

Farewell,  twin  Poplars,  —  mine  no  more,  — 

Whom  I  in  boyhood  taught  to  soar  ; 

(Why  stand  ye  murmuring,  mom  and  eve  ? 

Is  it  for  me  ye  strive  to  grieve  ? ) 

And  thou,  wild  Giant  Plant,  who  clingest 

Column  and  trelliced  arch  about. 

And  shadows  in  thy  vast  leaves  bringest. 

Shutting  the  fiery  West  all  out ; 

And  you,  ye  myriad-colored  flowers. 

Sweet  playmates  of  the  sunshine  hours. 

Farewell !  —  Farewell  the  dreams  of  youth  ; 

When  life  was  joy  ;  when  hope  was  truth  ; 

When  days  were  cloudless;  Time  too  brief; 

And  my  pillow  was  the  Poppy  leaf: 

When  all  the  world  was  frank  and  true  ; 

Wlien  Heaven  was  one  eternal  blue  ;  — 

Farewell !  —  and  Thou,  —  nurse,  guardian,  friend, 

Farewell  for  ever,  —  Old  Grove  End  ! 


214  SONGS. 


IX.— THE  RAKE'S  PROGRESS. 

(a    faint    impression    of   HOGARTH.) 

The  Old  Man  is  dead  !  —  Toll  heavily,  ye  bells  ! 

The  Son,  the  heir,  is  coming,  —  hark  !  the  music  how  it 

swells ! 
That  roar  and  shock  of  merriment  strikes  sadly  on  the 

heart : 
Joy  is  here,  almost  ere  Death  has  yet  had  leisure  to  depart : 
And  the  last  of  that  dark  funeral  (the  holy  rite  scarce  done) 
Cries  out,  —  "  The  Father  's  buried,  friends :  Long  life 

unto  the  Son !  " 

From  out  the  miser  mansion  is  swept  the  black  array  : 
The  windows  are  unbarred,  and  straight  in  dances  merry 

Day; 
The  cold,  grim  hearth  is  blazing :  the  cellars  shed  their 

wine ; 
The  chests  give  up  their  hoarded  souls,  and  the  Sake 

saith,  —  "  All  is  mine  !  " 
Yet  the  first  debt  that  he  pays  is  with  an  oath,  —  for 

virtue  won, 
(And  lost,  alas !)  —  and  so  begin  the  triumphs  of  the  Son. 

The  Rake  dawns  forth  in  scarlet:    his  ears  are  deaf 

with  praise ; 
The  fencer  and  the  fiddler  and  the  jockey  court  his  gaze  : 
The  poet  mouths  his  stanzas ;  the  bully,  with  a  curse. 
Swears  how  he  '11  cut  a  throat  for  him,  and  only  asks  — 

his  purse. 


SONGS.  215 

O  Steward  of  the  needy,  be  careful  of  thy  prize  ; 
Above  thee  beams  the  firmament :   Thy  way  is  to  the 
skies : 

No,  no :  his  doom  is  earthly ;  coarse,  earthly  are  his  joys, 
Black  wine  and  wild-eyed  women  round  him  stun  the 

night  with  noise  ; 
And  one,  a  painted  Thais,  doth  fire  a  painted  world  ; 
And  others  round  the  dizzy  room  in  drunken  dance  are 

whirled : 
Foul  songs  are  met  by  fouler  jibes ;  mad  screams  by 

curses  bold ; 
Till  even  the  drowsy  watchman  wakes,  and  —  claims 

his  bribe  in  gold. 

But  pleasures  are  not  endless,  however  far  we  range ; 
And   summer  friendship  faileth,  and   golden   seasons 

change : 
And  then  the  fierce-eyed  creditor  comes  clamoring  for 

his  debt ; 
And  all  who  fed  upon  the  Rake  are  eager  to  forget. 
The  bailifTs  are  upon  him,  —  ah  !  he  's  saved :  A  gentle 

heart 
Redeems  him :  't  is  a  Magdalen  who  plays  an  angel's  part. 

For  once  the  rescue  serveth  :  But  blacker  days  may  be  ; 
And  how  to  live  he  ponders,  and  still  riot  with  the  free  : 
He  sells  his  youth,  his  manhood  :  takes  sour  Old  Age  to 

wife, 
And  thus  (for  a  nauseous  respite)  twists  a  serpent  round 

his  life  : 


216  SONGS. 

That  sting  will  drive  him  frantic,  —  ay !  the  dice  are  in 

his  hands ; 
And  the  terrible  eye  of  Morning  sees  him  beggared 

where  he  stands. 

What  followeth  in  the  story  ?    Why,  horror  and  the  jail ; 

Where  food  is  not,  and  fire  is  not,  and  every  friend  doth 
fail; 

Where  each  jailer  is  a  robber,  and  each  prisoner  'round 
a  foe ; 

Where  nothing  linketh  heart  to  heart,  —  not  even  the 
common  woe. 

One  hope  he  had  :  —  't  is  vanished  !  He  sits  down  with 
vacant  stare. 

And  the  game  of  life  abandons,  with  the  quiet  of  de- 
spair : ' 

And  then  —  The  Madhouse  opens  !    Look  round  ;  — 

he  cannot :  Blight 
And  frenzy  hang  about  his  brain,  and  blind  his  staring 

sight : 
In  vain  pope,  king,  sit  crowned ;  in  vain  the  martyr  raves; 
In  vain  the  herds  of  idiots  sit  chattering  o'er  their  graves : 
He  heareth  not ;  he  seeth  not :  all  sense  is  dimmed  by 

pain  : 
Ambition,  Pride,  Religion,  Fear,  scream  out  to  him  in 

vain. 

And  yet,  O  human  Virtue !    Thou  never  canst  escape  : 
Thou  comest  here,  as  everywhere,  in  woman's  angel 
shape : 


SONGS,  217 

The  loved,  the  lost,  the  ruined  One, —  She  leaves  him 

not  at  last ; 
But  soothes  and  serves  about  him,  till  the  damps  of 

death  are  past : 
His   hmbs  she    then   composes,  —  weeps,  —  prays,  — 

(they  heed  her  not;) 
Then  glides  away  in  silence,  —  like  a  benefit  forgot ! 


X.  — THIRTEEN  YEARS  AGO. 
BEGGAR-GIRL. 

Thirteen  years  ago,  mother, 

A  little  child  had  you : 
Its  limbs  were  light ;  its  voice  was  soft ; 

Its  eyes  were  —  O,  so  blue  ! 
It  was  your  last,  your  dearest ; 

And  you  said,  when  it  was  born, 
It  cheered  away  your  widowhood. 

And  made  you  unforlorn. 

Thirteen  years  ago,  mother. 

You  loved  that  little  child  ; 
Although  its  temper  wayward  was. 

And  its  will  so  strong  and  wild : 
You  likened  it  to  the  free  bird 

That  flies  to  the  woods  to  sing. 


318  SONGS. 

To  the  river  fair,  the  unfettered  air, 
And  many  a  pretty  thing. 

Thirteen  years  ago,  mother, 

The  world  was  in  its  youth  : 
There  was  no  past :  and  the  all  to  come 

Was  Hope,  and  Love,  and  Truth : 
The  dawn  came  dancing  onwards, 

The  day  was  ne'er  too  long ; 
And  every  night  had  a  faery  sight. 

And  every  voice  a  song. 

Thirteen  years  ago,  mother. 

Your  child  was  an  infant  small ; 
But  she  grew,  and  budded,  and  bloomed  at  last, 

Like  the  rose  on  your  garden  wall : 
Ah !  the  rose  that  you  loved  was  trod  on. 

Your  child  was  lost  in  shame  ; 
And  never  since  hath  she  met  your  smile. 

And  never  heard  your  name  ! 

WIDOW. 

Be  dumb,  thou  gipsy  slanderer ; 

What  is  my  child  to  thee  ? 
What  are  my  troubles,  —  what  my  joys  ? 

Here,  take  these  pence  and  flee ! 
If  thou  wilt  frame  a  story, 

Which  telleth  of  me  or  mine. 
Go,  say  you  found  me  singing,  girl, 

In  the  merry  sunshine. 


SONGS.  219 

BEGGAR    GIRL. 

Thirteen  years  ago,  mother, 

The  sun  shone  on  your  wall : 
He  shineth  now  through  the  winter's  mist, 

Or  he  shineth  not  at  all. 
You  laughed  then,  and  your  little  one 

Ran  round  with  merry  feet ; 
To-day  you  hide  your  eyes  in  tears ; 

And  I  —  am  in  the  street ! 

WIDOW; 

Ah,  God  !  —  what  frightful  spasm 

Runs  piercing  through  my  heart : 
It  cannot  be  my  bright  one. 

So  pale,  —  so  worn :  —  Depart, 
Depart,  —  yet,  no  ;  come  hither ! 

Here,  —  hide  thee  in  my  breast ! 
I  see  thee  again,  —  again  !  and  I 

Am  once  more  with  the  blessed ! 

BEGGAR    GIRL. 

Ay,  —  gaze  !  —  'T  is  I,  indeed,  mother ; 

Your  loved,  —  your  lost,  —  your  child  ! 
The  rest  of  the  bad  world  scorn  me. 

As  a  creature  all  defiled  ; 
But  you,  —  you  '11  take  me  home,  mother  } 

And  I,  —  though  the  grave  seems  nigh, 
I  '11  bear  up  still ;  and,  for  your  sake, 

I  '11  struggle  —  not  to  die  ! 


220  SONGS. 

XI.  — A    DIRGE. 
(for  music.) 

Steew  boughs,  —  strew  flowers, 

Through  all  the  hours. 

On  yon  low  tomb  ! 

Unblown,  yet  faded, 

Unloved,  unknown. 

Here  Beauty  sleepeth  beneath  a  stone ; 

Once  how  fair,  but  now  degraded ! 

Hither  she  came,  alone  —  alone. 

From  the  South  Sea  bowers. 

Where  summer  dowers 

The  world  with  bloom  : 

Mingle  with  music  the  strange  perfume  ! 

Let  the  tears  of  the  Hours 

Now  fall  like  rain, 

And  freshen  the  flowers. 

Again,  again ! 

The  sweetness  they  borrow 

Shall  ne'er  be  vain. 

While  human  sorrow 

Is  falling  in  showers. 

That  yield  no  comfort  to  human  pain  ! 


SONGS  221 


XII. -THE  FATE  OF  THE  OAK. 

The  owl  to  her  mate  is  calling ; 

The  river  his  hoarse  song  sings  ; 
But  the  Oak  is  marked  for  falling, 

That  has  stood  for  a  hundred  springs. 
Hark  !  —  a  blow,  and  a  dull  sound  follows  ; 

A  second,  —  he  bows  his  head  ; 
A  third,  —  and  the  wood's  dark  hollows 

Now  know  that  their  king  is  dead. 

His  arms  from  their  trunk  are  riven  ; 

His  body  all  barked  and  squared  ; 
And  he  's  now,  like  a  felon,  driven 

In  chains  to  the  strong  dock-yard  : 
He  's  sawn  through  the  middle,  and  turned 

For  the  ribs  of  a  frigate  free  ; 
And  he  's  caulked,  and  pitched,  and  burned ; 

And  now  —  he  is  fit  for  sea  ! 

O,  now,  with  his  wings  outspread 

Like  a  ghost  (if  a  ghost  may  be). 
He  will  triumph  again,  though  dead. 

And  be  dreaded  in  every  sea  ! 
The  Lightning  will  blaze  about. 

And  wrap  him  in  flaming  pride  ; 
And  the  thunder-loud  cannon  will  shout. 

In  the  fight,  from  his  bold  broad-side. 


222  SONGS. 

And  when  he  has  fought,  and  won, 

And  been  honored  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  his  journey  on  earth  is  done,  — 

Why,  what  can  he  ask  for  more  ? 
There  is  nought  that  a  king  can  claim, 

Or  a  poet  or  warrior  bold. 
Save  a  rhyme  and  a  short-lived  name. 

And  to  mix  with  the  common  mould  ! 


XIII.— THE  HISTORY  OF  A  LIFE. 

Day  dawned  :  —  Within  a  curtained  room, 
Filled  to  faintness  with  perfume, 
A  lady  lay  at  point  of  doom. 

Day  closed  :  —  A  Child  had  seen  the  light ; 
But  for  the  lady,  fair  and  bright, 
She  rested  in  undreaming  night. 

Spring  rose  :  —  The  lady's  grave  was  seen ; 
And  near  it  oftentimes  was  seen 
A  gentle  Boy,  with  thoughtful  mien. 

Years  fled  :  —  He  wore  a  manly  face, 
And  struggled  in  the  world's  rough  race, 
And  won,  at  last,  a  lofty  place. 

And  then  —  he  died  !     Behold,  before  ye, 

Humanity's  poor  sum  and  story  ; 

Life,  —  Death,  —  and  all  that  is  of  Glory. 


SONGS.  223 


XIV. —  ON  A  STRANGER'S  GRAVE  NEAR  VENICR 

Low  lies  the  grave  wherein  a  Stranger  sleeps  ! 

Nought  comes  to  mourn  beside  that  humble  ground  ; 

Save  when,  in  melancholy  Autumn,  creeps 

The  sullen  Adriatic  round  and  round  ; 

Or  when  the  sea-bird,  with  his  wings  unbound. 

Screams  out  a  dirge,  and  toward  the  mountains  sweeps ; 

Or  when  a  dead  man  floats  across  the  deeps  ; 

Or  clouds,  blown  landward,  pass  without  a  sound  ! 

All  gloom  forsakes  the  spot  whereon  she  died  : 

The  merry  marriage-bells  send  forth  their  chimes  ; 

And  joy  flies  upwards  as  in  ancient  times  : 

Ah,  no  !  —  One  tender  heart,  to  hers  allied. 

In  sorrow  sweeter  than  the  poet's  rhymes, 

Sings  a  lament,  above  the  stranger's  grave, 

Its  murmurs  mingling  with  the  ever-murmuring  wave. 


XV.  — MUSIC. 

Hark  !    Music  speaks  from  out  the  woods  and  streams ; 

Amidst  the  winds,  amidst  the  harmonious  rain  : 
It  fills  the  voice  with  sweets,  the  eye  with  beams ; 

It  stirs  the  heart ;  it  charms  the  sting  from  pain. 

Great  Memory  hoards  it  'midst  her  golden  themes  ; 

The  wise  man  keeps  it  with  his  learned  gain ; 
The  minstrel  hears  it  in  his  listening  dreams  ; 

And  no  one,  save  the  fool,  doth  deem  it  vain. 


224  SONGS. 

Whatever  thing  doth  bring  a  joy  unstained 
Unto  the  soul,  if  rightly  understood, 

Is  one  more  ingot  to  our  fortune  gained, 
Is  wisdom  to  the  wise,  good  to  the  good  : 

"  Sing,  then,  divine  one  ! "  —  Thus  a  lover  sighed 
To  one  who  sate  beside  him  fair  and  young. 

Preluding  with  coquettish,  conscious  pride, 

And  checked  the  half-born  music  on  her  tongue 

Sing,  maiden,  —  gentle  maiden ! 

Sing  for  me  ;  sing  to  me  ; 
With  a  heart  not  overladen, 

Nor  too  full  of  glee. 
Give  thy  voice  its  way  divine  ; 
Let  thine  eyes,  sweet  spirits,  shine  ; 
Not  too  bright,  but  also  tender. 
Softness  stealing  half  their  splendor. 

Sing,  —  but  toubh  a  sadder  strain, 

Till  our  eyes  are  hid  in  rain. 

Tell  of  those  whose  hopes  are  wrecked 

On  that  cruel  strand,  —  neglect ; 

Widow  poor  and  unbefriended ; 

Virgin  dreams  in  ruin  ended  ; 

All  the  pleasure,  all  the  pain. 

That  hideth  from  the  world's  disdain. 

Sing,  —  an  airier,  blither  measure. 
Full  and  overflown  with  pleasure ; 


SONGS.  225 

Sing,  —  with  smiles  and  dimpling  mouth, 
Opening  like  the  sunny  South, 
When  it  breathes  amongst  the  roses, 
And  a  thousand  thousand  sweets  discloses. 

Sing, —  fair  child  of  music,  sing 

Like  love,  —  hope,  —  sorrow,  —  any  thing ; 

Like  a  sparkling,  murmuring  river, 

Running  its  blue  race  for  ever  ; 

Like  the  sounds  that  haunt  the  Sun, 

When  the  god's  bright  day  is  done  ; 

Like  the  voice  of  dreaming  Night, 

Tender,  touching,  airy,  light. 

Not  a  wind,  but  just  a  breeze 

Moving  in  the  citron-trees  ; 

Like  the  first  sweet  murnxur  creeping 

O'er  Love's  lips,  (when  pride  is  sleeping,) 

Love's  first  unforgotten  word. 

By  maiden  in  the  silence  heard. 

Heard,  hoarded,  and  repeated  oft, 

In  mimic  whisper,  low  and  soft,  — 

Yet,  what  matter  for  the  strain. 

Be  it  joy,  or  be  it  pain. 
So  thy  now  imprisoned  Voice 

In  its  matchless  strength  rejoice  ; 
So  it  burst  its  fetters  strong. 

Arid  soar  forth  on  winged  Song  ! 

15 


226  SONGS. 


XVI. -TO  THE  EYES  OF  A  YOU.VG  ACTRESS. 

Where  now  are  those  dark  Eyes —  (sweet  eyes !)  — 

In  tears  ?  —  in  thought  ?  —  in  sleep  ? 
Those  lights,  like  stars  in  the  stormy  skies, 

Which  gently  shine,  when  all  else  weep  ? 
O  dark,  unconquered  Eyes ! 
Are  ye  from  human  anguish  freed  ? 
Or  do  ye  sometimes  mourn  indeed. 
In  pity,  or  superior  pain, 
For  some  deep  secret  hid  from  all  the  world,  in  vain  ! 

O  melancholy  Eyes,  which  love  to  dwell 

On  Juliet's  passion,  —  Belvidera's  woe, — 
Where  was  the  light  which  now  ye  wear  so  well, 

(That  tender,  touching  lustre  !)  long  ago  ? 
Did  it  lie  dreaming  in  your  orbs  unknown, 

As  in  the  rose's  bud  the  unblown  perfume, 
Till  evil  fortune  (now  for  ever  flown) 

Struck  out  your  dazzling  doom  ? 
For  what  too  dangerous  purpose  were  ye  born  ? 

To  lead  the  youthful  poet  far  astray  ? 

Or,  was  't  to  turn  to  tears  the  proud  and  gay. 
With  looks  that  in  their  beauty  mock  the  morn  ? 

Long  may  ye  shine ;  as  dark,  as  bright,  as  young, 
(Shall  age  e'er  harm  ye  ?)  — as  complete  in  power, 
As  when  from  out  Verona's  midnight  bower 

Upon  the  moonlight  first  your  glances  hung, 


SONGS.  227 

And  filled  with  love  the  rich,  enamored  air, 
And  made  the  fair,  more  fair ! 

Long  may  ye  shine  ;  undimmed  by  storm  or  cloud  ; 

Uninjured,  unconsumed  by  grief  or  pain  ; 
Your  high,  heroic  spirit  never  bowed. 

Your  love  ne'er  lost,  your  tears  ne'er  shed  —  in  vain  ! 
Long  may  She  live  and  shine,  and  have  no  fear 

Of  fatal  Fortune  or  the  touch  of  Time, 
To  whom  belongs  your  beauty  without  peer, 

To  whom  belongs  this  slight  and  careless  rhyme  ! 


XVII.  — AN   INVOCATION  TO  MUSIC. 

See  where,  upon  the  blue  and  waveless  deep, 

Comes  forth  the  silent  Moon ! 

Now,  Music,  wake  from  out  thy  charmed  sleep  ; 

And  bid  thy  sweet  soul  weep 

Her  life  away  in  some  immortal  tune  ! 

Or,  let  thy  soaring  spirit  run 

Aloft  upon  some  wild,  enchanted  air, 

Before  whose  breath  despair 

Dies,  like  a  mist  before  the  uprisen  sun  ! 

Come  forth,  lost  Spirits  of  the  world  of  sound  ! 

Leave,  leave  awhile  your  aye-sweet  tasks  above  ; 
And  rear  your  starry  heads  with  music  crowned. 

And  once  more  weave  an  earthly  song  of  love ! 


228  SONGS. 

Weave  it  around  the  gentle  heart,  — 

Handel,  Haydn,  great  Beethoven, 

And  thou,  sweet,  sweet-souled  Mozart ! 

Ah !  sure  to  sing  and  love  must  be  the  angel's  part. 

Therefore,  pour  your  skyey  treasures,  — 

Grand,  unknown,  immortal  measures, 

Such  as  ne'er  the  blooming  Earth 

Heard  since  first  she  burst  to  birth, 

And  in  endless  ether  hung, 

While  the  stare  of  Morning  suns ! 


XVni.-TO  A  FRIEND  IN  AUTUMN. 

Friend  !  the  year  is  overgrown : 
Summer  like  a  bird  hath  flown, 
Leaving  nothing  (fruits  nor  flowers) 
Save  remembrance  of  sweet  hours  ; 
And  a  fierce  and  froward  season, 
Blowing  loud  for  some  rough  reason, 
Rusheth  from  a  land  unknown. 

Where  is  laughing  INIay,  who  leapt 
From  the  ground  when  April  wept  .-* 
Where  is  rose-encumbered  June  ? 
July,  with  her  lazy  noon  ? 
August,  with  her  crown  of  corn  ? 
And  the  fresh  September  morn  .'' 
Will  they  come  back  to  us,  —  soon  ?  - 


SONGS.  229 

Never !     Time  is  overgrown ! 
All  that  e'er  was  good  is  flown ! 
All  things  that  were  good  and  gay 
(Dances,  songs,  smiles)  have  flown  away  ; 
And  we  now  must  sinji  together 
Strains  more  sad  than  autumn  weather ; 
And  dance  upon  a  stormy  ground. 
Whilst  the  wild  winds  pipe  around, 
A  dark  and  unforgotten  measure, 
Graver  than  the  ghost  of  pleasure  ; 
Till  at  last,  at  Winter's  call. 
We  die,  and  are  forgot  by  all ! 


XIX  — LOWLY  PLEASURES. 

Methinks  I  love  all  common  things ; 
The  common  air,  the  common  flower ; 

The  dear,  kind  common  thought  that  springs 
From  hearts  that  have  no  other  dower, 
No  other  wealth,  no  other  power. 

Save  love  ;  and  will  not  that  repay 

For  all  else  fortune  tears  away  ? 

Methinks  T  love  the  horny  hand 
That  labors  until  dusk  from  dawn ; 

Methinks  1  love  the  russet  band, 
Beyond  the  band  of  silk  or  lawn ; 
And,  O,  the  lovely  laughter  drawn 

From  peasant  lips,  when  sunny  May 

Leads  in  some  flowery  holiday  I 


230  SONGS. 

What  good  axe  fancies  rare,  that  rack 
With  painful  thought  the  poet's  brain  ? 

Alas !  they  cannot  bear  us  back 
Unto  happy  years  again  ! 
But  the  white  rose  without  stain 

Bringeth  times  and  thoughts  of  flowers, 

When  youth  was  bounteous  as  the  hours ! 

E'en  now,  were  I  but  rich,  my  hand 
Should  open  like  a  vernal  cloud. 

When  't  casts  its  bounty  on  a  land 
In  music  sweet,  but  never  loud  : 
But  I  am  of  the  humble  crowd  ; 

And  thus  am  I  content  to  be, 

If  thou,  sweet  Muse,  wilt  cherish  me  ! 


XX.  — TO  OUR  NEIGHBOR'S  HEALTH. 

Send  the  red  wine  round  to-night, 
For  the  blast  is  bitter  cold  : 
Let  us  sing  a  song  that  's  light ; 
Merry  rhymes  are  good  as  gold. 

Here  's  unto  our  neighbor's  health  ! 
O,  he  plays  the  better  part ; 
Doing  good, —  but  not  by  stealth  : 
Is  he  not  a  noble  heart } 

Should  you  bid  me  tell  his  name,  — 
Show  wherein  his  virtues  dwell ; 


SONGS.  231 

'Faith,  (I  speak  it  to  my  shame,) 
I  should  scarce  know  what  to  tell. 

"  Is  he  —  ?  "  —  "  Sir,  he  is  a  thing 
Cast  in  common  human  clay  ; 
'Tween  a  beggar  and  a  king ; 
Fit  to  order  or  obey." 

"  He  is,  then,  a  soldier  brave  ?  "  — 
"  No ;  he  doth  not  kill  his  kin. 
Pampering  the  luxurious  grave 
With  the  blood  and  bones  of  sin." 

"  Or  a  Judge  .?  "  —  "  He  doth  not  sit 
Making  hucksters'  bargains  plain  ; 
Piercing  cobwebs  with  his  wit ; 
Cutting  tangled  knots  in  twain." 

"  He  is  an  Abbot,  then,  at  least .''  "  — 
"  No,  he  is  not  proud  and  blithe  : 
Leaving  prayer  to  humble  priest. 
Whilst  he  champs  the  golden  tithe. 

"  He  is  brave,  but  he  is  meek  : 
Not  as  judge  or  soldier  seems ; 
Not  like  Abbot  proud  and  sleek  : 
Yet  his  dreams  are  starry  dreams,  — 

"  Such  as  lit  the  World  of  old 
Through  the  darkness  of  her  way  ; 


232  SONGS. 

Such  as  might,  if  clearly  told, 
Guide  blind  Future  into  day. 

"  Never  hath  he  sought  to  rise 
On  a  friend's  or  neighbor's  fall ; 
Never  slurred  a  foe  with  lies  : 
Never  shrunk  from  hunger's  call : 

"  But  from  morning  until  eve, 
And  through  Autumn  into  Spring, 
He  hath  kept  his  course,  (believe,) 
Courting  neither  slave  nor  king. 

"  He,  —  whatever  be  his  name. 

For  I  know  it  not  aright,  — 

He  deserves  a  wider  fame  ; 

Come,  —  here  's  to  his  health,  to-night ! 


XXL  — TO  A  POET  ABANDONING  HIS  ART. 

Friend  !  desert  not  thou  the  Muse  ! 

Shun  not,  —  scorn  not  her  control ! 
Thou  the  yellow  dross  mayst  lose. 

But  thou  ''It  gain  the  wealth  of  soul. 
What  is  gold,  unless  it  bring 

More  than  gold  has  ever  brought  ? 
What  is  gold,  if  to  it  cling 

Narrower  vision,  meaner  thought  ? 


SONGS.  233 

They  who  bid  us  bend  the  spirit 

To  a  base  or  poor  desire, 
Little  know  what  they  inherit 

Who  unto  the  skies  aspire. 
Let  them  (if  the  body  claim 

AH  their  sordid  hope  and  care) 
Leave  the  poet  to  his  fame, 

His  shadowy  joy,  —  his  finer  air. 

Some  there  be,  who  feel  no  pain. 

So  the  baser  mark  they  shun, 
Shouting  when  their  end  they  gain, 

"  Joy  is  joy,  —  however  won." 
To  us  diviner  dreams  are  given ; 

To  us  a  sweet-voiced  angel  sings, 
"  What  were  Earth  without  its  Heaven  :  — 

The  Soul  without  its  win^s  ?  " 


rxn.  — IGNORANCE  IS  BLISS. 

Rains  fall ;  suns  shine  ;  winds  flee  ; 
Brooks  run  ;  yet  few  know  how. 
Do  not  thou  too  deeply  search 
Why  thou  lov'st  me  now  ! 

Perhaps,  by  some  command 

Sent  earthward  from  above, 

Thy  heart  was  doomed  to  lean  on  mine  ; 

Mine  to  enjoy  thy  love. 


234  SONGS. 

Why  ask,  when  joy  doth  smile, 
From  what  bright  heaven  it  fell  ? 
Men  mar  the  beauty  of  their  dreams 
By  tracing  their  source  too  well. 


XXIII.  — MENS  nV'INIOR. 

Love  is  born  in  joy. 
And  is  bred  in  sorrow. 

Cloudy-dark  to-day, 
Sunshiny  to-morrow  ; 

Changing  through  each  season, 

Without  any  reason. 

Reason !  —  let  it  bend 

To  an  instinct  finer; 
True  as  are  its  rules, 

There  is  "  mind  diviner" 
Shining  o'er  its  summing. 
Like  an  angel's  coming ; 

Thoughts  that  pass  the  stars. 
Love  more  sweet  than  flowers, 

Faith  that  steadfast  shines 
Through  the  endless  hours; 

Brightening  every  season. 

True,  —  yet  passing  reason 


soxGS.  2;?5 

Measure,  if  thou  wilt, 

Light,  and  air,  and  ocean  ; 
Leave  us,  undefaced, 

Our  divine  emotion, — 
Poet's,  prophet's  story, 
And  the  world  of  Glory. 

You,  whose  poor-house  balance 

Weighs  out  want  and  crime  ; 
You,  whose  sordid  ledgers 

Crush  the  poet's  rhyme, 
Leave  us  tears  and  laughter, 
And  the  hope  of  hopes,  —  Eternal  bright  Hereafter ! 

XXIV.  — HENRI  QUATRE. 

Bold  Henri  Quatre  !  gay  sovereign  !  champion  strong  ! 
Whose  life  was  one  wild  scene  of  love  and  war. 
Here  wast  thou  (thou  the  heir  of  all  Navarre) 
Nursed  to  the  music  of  a  peasant's  song  ; 
And  well  it  was,  indeed,  when  thou  wast  young, 
That  fearless  Truth  and  social  Nature  taught 
Thee  lessons,  unto  monarchs  seldom  brought ; 
And  duties,  which  to  men  and  kings  belong. 

Be  sure,  when  princes  learn,  —  'midst  equal  mates. 
Frequent  denial,  scant  and  rugged  fare, 
Frank  intercourse  with  social  joy  and  care. 
Their  virtue  from  such  wholesome  lessons  dates. 
These  fit  them  to  breathe  well  God's  human  air, 
And  teach  them  how  to  sway  the  hearts  of  states. 


236  SONGS. 


XXV.  — A  CATALOGUE  OF  COMMONPLACES. 

"  What  is  Earth  ?  "  the  poet  saith. 

It  is  a  place  of  birth  and  death  ; 

A  school  wherein  the  schoolmen  teach, 

And  never  practise  as  they  preach  ; 

Where  Greek  and  Latin  stamp  the  scholar ; 

Where  Fame  is  reckoned  by  the  dollar ; 

Where  Scandal  and  false  Innuendo 

Taint  all  that  women  and  e'en  men  do  ; 

Where  Lie  the  first  is  peerless  reckoned, 

Until  thrust  out  by  Lie  the  second  : 

Where  Candor,  Worth,  and  Thought  are  sleeping ; 

Where  Cant  is  upwards,  upwards  creeping  ; 

Where  Age  is  drivelling ;  Youth  pedantic  ; 

Religion  frozen,  or  else  frantic  ; 

Where  great  Palaver  despot  reigneth  ; 

Where  Wisdom  to  the  moon  complaineth ; 

Where  folks  who  winds  &.nd  waters  measure. 

And  chattering  Savans  take  their  pleasure. 

And  meet  each  year  from  hall  and  college. 

Stunning  the  soul  with  scraps  of  knowledge  ; 

Where  Strength  is  right ;  where  Truth  is  wrong ; 

Where  Genius  shrinks  into  a  song ; 

Where  struggling  Girlhood  toils  and  dies  ; 

Where  Childhood  pines  ;  where  Hunger  cries. 

And  none  respondeth  to  its  call ; 

And  yet  —  blue  Heaven  is  over  all ! 


SONGS.  237 


XXVI.— AN  EXTRAVAGANZA. 

BY  VICTOR   HUGO. 

Enfant !  si  j'etais  roi,  je  donnerais  I'empire,  etc.  , 

I  'd  give,  Girl,  (were  I  but  a  king,) 
Throne,  sceptre,  empire,  —  every  thing  ; 
My  people  suppliant  on  the  knee ; 
My  ships,  that  crowd  the  subject  sea  ; 
My  crown,  my  oaths  of  porphyry. 

For  one  sweet  look  from  thee  ! 

Were  I  a  God,  I  'd  give  —  the  air, 
Earth,  and  the  sea  ;  the  angels  fair  ; 
The  skies  ;  the  golden  worlds  around ; 
The  dsemons,  whom  my  laws  have  bound  ; 
Chaos,  and  its  dark  progeny  ; 
All  space,  and  all  eternity. 

For  one  love-kiss  from  thee  ! 


XXVII.  — LOVE  AND  LIGHT. 

It  is  not  in  the  quality  of  Love 

To  be  relieved  from  human  error  quite  ; 

Nor  quite  unsullied  is  yon  Orb  above. 

That  fills  the  o'erhanging  heavens  with  warmth  and  light, 

And,  from  its  vast  and  ever-burning  fountains. 

Sheds  on  the  slumbering  earth  those  summer  showers. 


238  SONGS. 

Which  clothe  her  meads  with  green,  and  bid  her  moun- 
tains 
Shoot  forests  forth,  in  joy.    And  yet,  O  Love  !    O  Sun  ! 
What  a  world  were  ours, 
Did  ye  not  both  your  radiant  journeys  run. 
And  touch  us  with  your  brightness,  pure  and  kind  ! 


XXVin.— THE  TWIN-BORN. 

Hope  !  —  is  he  for  ever  glad  ? 
Sorrow  !  —  is  she  always  sad  ? 
(Sorrow,  —  is  not  that  her  name. 
Who  hath  won  so  sad  a  fame .'') 
Doth  he  ever  smiling  look  ? 
Doth  she  gaze,  as  on  a  book, 
Always  on  the  pictured  past. 
While  her  eyes  are  flowing  fast  ? 
Sit  by  me  !  —  sit  by  me  ! 
Let  us  watch,  and  we  shall  see 
If  such  changeless  things  can  be, 
Where  all  is  mutability. 

So,  glad  Spirit,  as  I  speak. 
Thou  hast  tears  on  thy  young  cheek, 
Like  the  fresh  dew  on  the  rose  ! 
And  sweet  Sorrow  (though  she  knows 
She  must  turn  to  tears  again) 
Smileth  in  a  pause  of  pain. 


SONGS.  239 

Thus  each  telleth,  in  sweet  guise, 
That  Grief  must  leave  the  saddest  eyes ; 
That  even  Hope  itself  must  fly, 
With  a  sob  and  with  a  sigh  ; 
But  that  each  returneth  soon, 
As  constant  as  the  moon  ! 


XXIX.  — A  COjniON  THOUGHT. 

All  faces  melt  in  smiles  and  tears, 
Stirred  up  by  many  a  passion  strange, 

(Likings,  loathings,  wishes,  fears,) 
Till  death  :  —  then  ends  all  change. 

Then  king  and  peasant,  bride  and  nun, 

Wear  but  one ! 

Spring,  all  beauty,  aye  laughs  loud  ; 

Summers  smile,  and  Autumns  rave  ; 
But  Winter  puts  on  his  white  shroud. 

And  lies  down  in  his  grave ; 
And  when  the  next  soft  season  nears. 
He  disappears ! 

Merry  Spring  for  childish  face  ; 

Summer  for  young  manhood  bold ; 
Autumn  for  a  graver  race  ; 

Winter  for  the  old  ! 
After  that,  —  what  seasons  run  ? 
Alas !  not  one  ! 


240  SONGS. 

Then  all  the  changing  passions  fade  ; 

Then  all  the  seasons  strange  have  passed  ; 
And  over  spreads  one  boundless  shade, 

Which  must  for  ever  last : 
Then  Life's  uncounted  sands  are  run, 
And  —  all  is  done  ! 


XXX.  — A  PHANIASY. 

I  HEAR  thy  breath  :  't  is  soft  and  near, 
'T  is  sweeter  than  the  close  of  day, 
When  June  o'ertakes  the  maiden  May 
Amidst  the  unblown  eglantines, 
And  round  her  scented  bosom  twines. 
I  hear  thy  step,  't  is  light  and  near : 
Tell  me  where  dost  hide,  my  dear  ? 
Voice.  —  Far  away,  far  away  ! 

Underneath  what  drooping  showers 
Of  lilac  and  laburnum  flowers  ? 
Voice.  —  Far  away  ! 

My  love,  my  lady  Lily,  fair, 
Fairer  than  the  crowned  rose  is,) 
Is  it  in  the  cowslip  lair, 
Where  the  sweet  South  wind  reposes, 
That  thou  dost  lie 
All  the  spring-time  long,  and  sigh. 
With  the  river  by  thy  side, 
Murmuring  like  a  one-day's  bride  ? 


SONGS.  241 

Hush !  —  Give  answer,  Spirit  sweet ! 
Ah,  I  hear  thy  tender  feet 
Rustling  in  the  grass  unmown  : 
Nay,  at  times,  when  all  alone 
On  the  moonlit  moor  I  walk, 
I  can  see  thee,  with  a  star 
On  thy  forehead,  from  afar. 
Shall  I  ever  dare  to  talk 
With  thy  sweet  ghost  all  alone  ? 
What,  though  men  do  swear  to  me 
Thou  art  all  a  phantasy. 
Thou  wilt  live  with  me,  as  true 
As  the  stars  are  to  the  blue. 
Time  may  all  alter :  Youth  be  dead  ; 
And  the  Spring  may  hide  her  head  ; 
And  the  friend,  now  near  my  heart. 
May  desert  his  better  part ; 
But  Thou  ever  wilt  remain 
In  my  heart  and  in  my  brain. 
Truer,  to  the  inward  eye. 
Than  many  a  gross  reality. 


16 


242  SONGS. 


XXXI.  — ON  A  LADY  SLANDERED. 

Her  doom  is  writ :  her  name  is  grown 
Familiar  in  the  common  mouth  ; 

And  she  who  was,  when  all  unknown, 
Like  a  sunbeam  bursting  from  the  south, 

Is  overshadowed  by  her  fate  ; 

By  others'  envy,  others'  hate  ! 

I  loved  her  when  her  fame  was  clear ; 

I  love  her  now  her  fame  is  dark : 
Twice — thrice — a  thousand  times  more  dear 

Is  she,  with  Slander's  serpent  mark. 
Than  Beauty  that  did  never  know 
Shadow,  —  neither  shame  nor  woe. 

Let  who  will  admire  —  adore 

Her  whom  vulgar  crowds  do  praise ; 

I  will  love  my  love  the  more 
When  she  falls  on  evil  days  ! 

Truer,  firmer,  will  I  be. 

When  the  truth-like  fail  or  flee. 

Bird  of  mine  !  though  rivers  wide 

And  wild  seas  between  us  run. 
Yet  I  '11  some  day  come,  with  pride, 

And  serve  thee,  from  sun  to  sun  ; 
Meantime,  all  my  wishes  flee 
To  thy  nest  beyond  the  sea  ! 


SONGS.  243 

Mourn  not !  let  a  brighter  doom 

Breed  no  anguish  in  thy  mind  : 
If  the  rose  hath  most  perfume, 

It  hath  still  the  thorn  behind  : 
If  the  sun  be  at  its  height, 
Think  what  follows,  —  certain  night. 

Murmur  not !  whatever  ill 

Cometh,  am  /  not  thy  friend, 
(In  false  times  the  firmer  still,) 

Without  changing,  without  end  ? 
Ah,  if  one  true  friend  be  thine. 
Dare  not  to  repine  ! 


XXXII  —TO  A  SLEEPER. 

Sleep,  maiden,  —  gentle  maiden, 

Through  the  calm  night ! 
Be  thy  tender  heart  unladen 

Of  its  burthen  quite  ! 
And,  when  golden  Morning  streaming 
Wakeneth  thee  from  happy  dreaming. 

With  its  oriental  light. 
Rise,  —  and  let  thy  humble  prayer 
Thank  the  God  who  made  thee  fair ; 
Fair,  and  happy,  fit  to  dwell 
On  a  throne  or  in  a  cell. 

Shun  the  fevers  of  the  mind. 
Envy,  Hate,  Ambition  blind, 


244  SONGS. 

Too  much  Love,  (if  love  thou  must,) 
And  the  passions  bom  of  dust. 
Learn  to  soothe  another's  smart ; 
Learn  to  rule  thy  own  warm  heart : 
For,  of  all  the  treasures  sent 
Downwards  from  the  azure  air. 
Know,  there  's  nought  that  may  compare 
With  the  sweetest  sweet,  —  Content ! 


xxxm.— A  DreGE. 

Here  she  lies,  whom  Fortune  dowered 

With  the  virgin  wealth  of  Youth, 

Beauty,  and  the  love  of  Truth, 

Golden  Honor,  spotless  Fame, 

Twenty-times  transmitted  name ! 

Here  she  lies,  deserted,  dead  ! 

Dead,  alas,  and  on  her  head 

The  cold  and  crumbling  earth  is  showered  ! 

Not  a  stone  is  at  her  feet ; 

Not  a  bud,  with  Summer  sweet, 

Sleepeth  on  her  winding-sheet. 

Yet  what  do  such  poor  wants  avail  ? 

The  sad-eyed  widow.  Pity  pale, 

Weepeth  when  her  story  's  told  ; 

How  her  love  was  left  for  gold  ; 

How,  desert'  and  doomed  to  fade, 

(Underneath  the  green  grass  laid,) 

She  left  him  whose  sordid  pride 

Left  her  for  a  meaner  bride ! 


SONGS.  245 


XXXIV.— A  LAMENT. 


Sweet  friend,  let 's  mourn  in  music 

The  passing  of  the  year ; 
Fresh  Autumn's  spicy  breezes ; 

The  sunny  Summer  clear ; 
And  Spring,  so  sweet  and  beautiful, 

When  thoughts  were  never  drear. 

As  dreams  that  warmed  our  slumber 
Dissolve  in  morning  gray  ; 

As  friends  that  loved  our  childhood 
All  shrink  and  turn  to  clay  ; 

So  our  some  months'  companion 
Fadeth  at  last  away. 

He  fadeth,  he  departeth. 

Beyond  all  human  ken  ; 
Bearing  the  sins,  and  agonies, 

Hopes,  fears,  and  joys  of  men  ; 
Loathed,  dreaded,  loved,  lamented  ;  — 

Never  to  come  again  ! 

What  sounds  of  life  and  laughter 

Were  poured  into  his  ear  ; 
What  thoughts,  delights,  and  fantasies 

He  passed  in  his  career, 
We  know  not:  Once  so  cherished. 
The  deeds  of  Time  have  perished, 

Like  the  flowers  upon  his  bier. 


246  SONGS. 


XXXV.  — STANZAS. 


That  was  not  a  barren  time, 

When  the  new  World  calmly  lay 

Bare  unto  the  frosty  rime, 
Open  to  the  burning  day. 

Though  her  young  limbs  were  not  clad 
With  the  colors  of  the  spring, 

Yet  she  was  all  inward  glad. 
Knowing  all  she  bore  within, 
Undeveloped,  blossoming. 

There  was  Beauty,  such  as  feeds 
Poets  in  their  secret  hours ; 

Music  mute  ;  and  all  the  seeds 
And  the  signs  of  all  the  flowers. 

There  was  wealth,  beyond  the  gold 

Hid  in  Oriental  caves  ; 
There  was  —  all  we  now  behold 

'Tween  our  cradles  and  our  graves. 

Judge  not,  then,  the  Poet's  dreams 
Barren  all,  and  void  of  good  : 

There  are  in  them  azure  gleams, 
Wisdom  not  all  understood. 


SONGS.  247 

Fables,  with  a  heart  of  truth ; 

Mysteries,  that  unfold  in  light ; 
Morals,  beautiful  for  youth  ; 

Starry  lessons  for  the  night. 

Unto  Man,  in  peace  and  strife, 

True  and  false,  and  weak  and  strong, 

Unto  all,,  in  death  and  life. 
Speaks  the  poet  in  his  song. 


XXXn.— fOXG,   AFTER  LABOR. 

Labor's  strong  and  merry  children, 
Comrades  of  the  rising  sun. 

Let  us  sing  some  songs  together. 
Now  our  toil  is  done. 

No  desponding,  no  repining ! 

Leisure  must  by  toil  be  bought ; 
Never  yet  was  good  accomplished. 

Without  hand  and  thought. 

Even  God's  all  holy  labor 

Framed  the  air,  the  stars,  the  sun  ; 
Built  our  earth  on  deep  foundations ; 

And  —  the  World  was  won ! 


248  SONGS. 


XXXVII— THE  SAILOR'S  LAMENT  FOB  THE  SEA. 

Merry  Ocean  !     Honest  Ocean ! 

Wherefore  did  I  fly  from  thee  ? 
Thou,  whatever  wind  came  fawning, 

Ever  wast  a  friend  to  me  : 
Joy  was  on  thy  morning  billows, 

Quiet  on  thine  evening  wave  ; 
In  the  South  a  world  of  pleasures, 

In  the  North  —  at  least  a  grave. 

But  amongst  these  sullen  moorlands, 

Nothing  that  I  seek  I  find  ; 
Neither  hope,  nor  pain,  nor  pleasure, 

Not  even  a  tranquil  mind. 
Once  I  had  a  dream  :  —  wherever 

I  was  sailing,  —  near  or  far,  — 
I  could  always  see  it  sparkle 

In  the  distance,  like  a  star ! 

But  at  last  it  faded  :  Helen,  — 

Ah,  why  do  I  name  her  name  } 
Even  now  I  feel  my  forehead 

Flushing  with  its  ancient  shame  ; 
She  it  is  whose  falsehood  bringeth 

Darkness  of  the  heart  on  me ; 
She  it  is  whose  falsehood  drives  me 

To  thy  stormy  arms,  O  Sea ! 


SONGS.  249 

Once  —  no  matter — I  remember 

I  did  love  my  father's  field, 
Every  daisy,  every  berry 

That  the  autumn  hedge  did  yield  : 
But  such  things  delight  no  longer ; 

There  is  change  in  them  or  me : 
So,  once  more,  I  '11  mate  my  Spirit 

With  the  spirit  of  the  Sea. 

Come,  old  comrades !     Hearty  seamen  ! 

Are  ye  not  fatigued  with  shore  ? 
Shall  we  not  go  forth  together 

One  long,  venturous  voyage  more  ? 
Come  !     Let  's  on,  where  waters  soothe  us ; 

Where  all  winds  can  whistle  free  : 
Hearts  !  there  's  nowhere  shed  or  shelter 

Like  our  own  true  home,  —  the  Sea  ! 


XXXVra.— THE  POET  AND  THE  FISHER. 

(DDET.) 
I. 

P.  —  O  Fisher,  who  dost  ever  love  to  stand 

By  waters  streaming ! 
F.  —  O  Poet,  who  dost  lie,  at  Love's  command. 

In  azure  dreaming ! 
P.  —  What  is  it  bids  us  face,  'midst  rain  and  wind. 

The  wild  Spring  weather  ? 
F.  —  What  strange  and  unknown  tie  doth  help  to  bind 

Such  souls  together  ? 


250  SONGS. 

II. 

F.  —  What  know'st  thou,  Poet,  of  the  tedious  time 

The  fisher  loseth  ? 
r.  —  What  know'st  thou,  Fisher,  of  the  precious  rhyme 

The  bard  abuseth  ? 
F.  —  I  only  know  that  Health  and  Pleasure  thrive 

In  any  season. 
P.  —  Enough  :  we  Ml  let  our  April  friendship  live 

Without  a  reason. 


XXXIX.  — TO  D.   MACLISE,  R.  A. 

I. 
On  1  —  from  honor  unto  honor ;   ( let   nor   praise   nor 

pelf  allure ! ) 
Onwards,  upwards,  be  thy  course,  and   let   thy   foot 

be  firm  and  sure. 

II. 
There  is  RafFaelle  still  before  thee ;  Titian,  Michael, 

Rembrandt,  all ; 
Now  for  a  vigorous  effort ;  knit  thy  sinews  and  thou 

shalt  not  fall. 

III. 

In   thy  land   is   Hogarth's   glory :   side    by  side   with 

Reynolds'  fame  ; 
Much  to  spur  thee,  nought  to  daunt  thee :  —  Dare  !  and 

thou  shalt  do  the  same. 


SONGS.  251 

IV. 

On  the  Earth  are  lands  untrodden  ;  (somewhere  under- 
neath the  sun;) 

Azure  heights  yet  unascended ;  pahny  countries  to  be 
won. 

V. 

In  tlie  Heart's  diviner  regions,  there  are  thoughts  that 

stir  the  soul, 
Till  it  shoots  the  bounds  of  darkness,  past  where  stars 

and  planets  roll. 

VI. 

In  the  cottage  as  the  palace,  in  the  clown  as  in  the 

king. 
Infinite,  endless  passions  reign,  and  with  them  change 

and  conduct  bring ;  — 

VII. 

Love,  whose  strength  doth  vanquish  sorrow  ;  Freedom, 

wealthy  with  his  crust ; 
Truth  the  servant ;  Faith  the  martyr ;  Hope  that  soar- 

eth  from  the  dust. 

VIII. 

Life  in  all  its  sunny  aspects,  —  All  the  moods  of  vice 

and  pain 
Lie  before  thee :  —  O,   be  certain,  nothing   need   be 

sought  in  vain  ! 


252  SONGS. 


XL.  — SONG. 

Come,  —  let  me  dive  into  thine  eyes  ! 

So  dim,  so  deep,  so  filled  with  love ! 
Touched  with  soft  azure,  like  the  skies, 

When  evening  veils  the  light  above. 

Come, — let  me  gaze  upon  thy  hand ! 

No  ring  ?  —  all  's  fair  and  virgin  white ! 
Thy  heart  ?     I  would  I  could  command 

Thy  heart  to  open  on  my  sight. 

Yet,  no :  I  '11  trust  those  stars  of  blue, 
And  ask  them  now  my  doom  divine : 

No  need  :  thy  lips  give  answer  true  ; 

They  move,  —  they  murmur,  —  "I  am  thine ! " 

XLI.— FOR  MUSIC. 

Now  whilst  he  dreams,  O  Muses,  wind  him  round ! 

Send  down  thy  silver  words,  O  murmuring  Rain ! 
Haunt  him,  sweet  Music  !    Fall,  with  gentlest  sound, — 

Like  dew,  like  night,  upon  his  weary  brain  ! 
Come,  Odors  of  the  rose  and  violet,  —  bear 
Into  his  charmed  sleep  all  visions  fair ! 
So  may  the  lost  be  found, 

So  may  his  thoughts  by  tender  Love  be  crowned, 
And  Hope  come  shining  like  a  vernal  mom. 
And  with  its  beams  adorn 
The  Future,  till  he  breathes  diviner  air 
In  some  soft  Heaven  of  joy,  beyond  the  range  of  Care ! 


SONGS.  253 


XUI.— SOXG. 


Let  us  sing  and  sigh ! 

Let  us  sigh  and  sing  ! 
Sunny  haunts  have  no  such  pleasures 

As  the  shadows  bring  ! 

Who  would  seek  the  crowd  ? 

Who  would  seek  the  noon  ? 
That  could  woo  the  pale  maid  Silence 

Underneath  the  moon  ? 

Smiles  are  things  for  youth, 
Things  for  a  merry  rhyme  ; 

But  the  voice  of  Pity  suiteth 
Any  mood  or  time. 


XLin— A  LOVE  §ONG. 

Laugh  not,  nor  weep  ;  but  let  thine  eyes 
Grow  soft  and  dim  (so  love  should  be) ; 

And  be  thy  breathing  tender,  quick, 
And  tremulous,  whilst  I  gaze  on  thee. 

And  let  thy  words  be  few  or  none  ; 

But  murmurs,  such  as  soothe  the  air 
In  summer  when  the  day  is  done, 

Be  heard,  sweet  heart,  when  I  am  there. 


254  SONGS. 

And  I,  —  oh !  I,  in  those  soft  times 
When  all  around  is  still  and  sweet, 

Will  love  thee  more  a  thousand  times 
Than  if  the  world  was  at  thy  feet ! 


XLIV.— SONG. 


Love  me  if  I  live  ! 

Love  me  if  I  die ! 
What  to  me  is  life  or  death, 

So  that  thou  be  nigh  ? 

Once  I  loved  thee  rich, 
Now  I  love  tljee  poor ; 

Ah  !  what  is  there  I  could  not 
For  thy  sake  endure  ? 

Kiss  me  for  my  love  ! 

Pay  me  for  my  pain ! 
Come  !  and  murmur  in  my  ear 

How  thou  lov'st  again ! 


SONGS.  255 


XL  v.— SONG. 

Sing  no  more  !     Thy  heart  is  crossed 

By  some  dire  thing : 
Sing  no  more  !     Thy  lute  has  lost 

Its  one  sweet  string. 
The  music  of  the  heart  and  lute 
Are  mute,  —  are  mute  ! 

Laugh  no  more  !     The  earth  hath  taught 

A  false,  fond  strain  : 
Laugh  no  more  !     Thy  soul  hath  caught 

The  grave's  first  stain. 
The  pleasures  of  the  world  are  known, 
And  flown,  —  and  flown  ! 

Weep  no  more  !     The  fiercest  pains 

Were  love,  were  pride  : 
Weep  no  more !     The  world's  strong  chains 

Are  cast  aside. 
And  all  the  war  of  life  must  cease, 
In  peace,  —  in  peace  ! 


256  SONGS. 


XLVl.— A  SONG; 

ON    AN     OLD     SUBJECT. 

Like  a  rose  sprang  Jeanie, 
From  a  blue  May  hour, 

Friendship  all  her  pride, 
Virtue  all  her  dower. 

Like  a  rose  spread  Jeanie, 
Whom  warm  skies  illume  ; 

Like  its  breath,  in  sweetness  ; 
Like  its  dye,  in  bloom. 

Like  a  rose  fell  Jeanie, 

Smit  by  winter  cold  ; 
Loved,  —  destroyed,  —  derided  : 

So,  —  her  tale  is  told ! 

O,  too  tender  woman ! 

Heed  her  shame,  —  her  pain 
Let 's  not  tell  her  story 

A  thousand  times  in  vain ! 


SONGS.  257 


XLVn.— SOXG. 


I  LOVE  him  ;  I  dream  of  him  ; 

I  sing  of  him  by  day  ; 
And  all  the  night  I  hear  him  talk, 

And  yet  —  he  's  far  away  I 

There  's  beauty  in  the  morning ; 

There  's  sweetness  in  the  May ; 
There  's  music  in  the  running  stream  ; 

And  yet  —  he  's  far  away  ! 

I  love  him  ;  I  trust  in  him  ; 

He  trusteth  me  alway  : 
And  so  the  time  flies  hopefully, 

Although  —  he  's  far  away  ! 


XLVIIL- QUESTION  AND  REPLY. 

Tell  me  what  thou  lovest  best  ? 
Vernal  motion  ?     Summer  rest  ? 
Winter,  with  his  merry  rhymes  ? 
Or  the  grand  Autumnal  times  ? 
Dost  thou  Saxon  beauty  prize  ? 
Or,  in  England,  love-lit  eyes  ? 
Or  the  brown  Parisian's  grace  ? 
Or  the  warm-souled  Bordelaise  ? 

17 


258  SONGS. 

Or  the  forehead  broad  and  clear 

Which  the  Italian  Damas  wear, 

Braiding  round  their  night-black  hair, 

Circe-like  ?  —  Or  the  Spanish  air, 

Where  the  Moor  has  mixed  his  blood 

With  the  dull  Castilian  flood, 

Giving  life  to  sleepy  pride  ? 

Tell  me,  where  wouldst  thou  abide, 

Choosing  for  thyself  a  season, 

And  a  mate,  —  for  sweet  Love's  reason  ? 

Nought  for  country  should  I  care. 
So  my  mate  were  true  and  fair : 
But  for  her,  —  O,  she  should  be 
(Thus  far  I  '11  confess  to  thee) 
Like  a  bud  when  it  is  blowing ; 
Like  a  brook  when  it  is  flowing 
(Marred  by  neither  heat  nor  cold) ; 
Fashioned  in  the  lily's  mould, — 
Stately,  queen-like,  very  fair ; 
With  a  motion  like  the  air  ; 
Glances  full  of  morning  light. 
When  the  morn  is  not  too  bright ; 
With  a  forehead  marble  pale. 
When  sad  Pity  tells  her  tale  ; 
And  a  soft  scarce-tincted  cheek, 
(Flushing  but  when  she  doth  speak ;) 
For  her  voice,  't  should  have  a  tone 
Sweetest  when  with  me  alone  ; 
And  Love  himself  should  seek  his  nest 
Within  the  fragrance  of  her  breast ! 


SONGS.  259 


XLIX.— TO  THE  SOUTH  WIND. 

O  SWEET  South  Wind ! 

Long  hast  thou  lingered  'midst  those  islands  fair. 

Which  lie,  enchanted,  on  the  Indian  deep, 

Like  sea-maids  all  asleep, 

Charmed  by  the  cloudlet  sun  and  azure  air ! 

O  sweetest  Southern  Wind  ! 

Pause  here  awhile,  and  gently  now  unbind 

Thy  dark  rose-crowned  hair ! 

Wilt  thou  not  unloose  now. 

In  this,  the  bluest  of  all  hours. 

Thy  passion-colored  flowers  ?  — 

Eest ;  and  let  fall  the  fragrance  from  thy  brow. 

On  Beauty's  parted  lips  and  closed  eyes. 

And  on  her  cheeks,  which  crimson  like  the  f^kies ; 

And  slumber  on  her  bosom,  white  as  snow. 

Whilst  starry  Midnight  flies  ! 

We,  whom  the  Northern  blast 

Blows  on,  from  night  till  mom,  from  mom  till  eve, 

Hearing  thee,  sometimes  grieve 

That  our  poor  summer's  day  not  long  may  last : 

And  yet,  perhaps,  't  were  well 

We  should  not  ever  dwell 

With  thee,  sweet  Spirit  of  the  sunny  South  ; 

But  touch  thy  odorous  mouth 


260  SONGS. 

Once,  and  begone  unto  our  blasts  again, 

And  their  bleak  welcome,  and  our  wintry  snow  ; 

And  arm  us  (by  enduring)  for  that  pain 

Which  the  bad  world  sends  forth,  and  all  its  woe  ! 


L.  — SONG. 

The  rain  is  falling ; 

The  wind  is  loud ; 
The  morning  is  hiding 

Behind  a  cloud ; 
The  stars  are  scattered 

By  dawn  of  day ; 
But  where  is  my  lover  ? 

Afar  —  away ! 

The  East  is  brighter ; 

The  wind  is  still; 
The  sun  is  rising 

Beyond  the  hill ; 
It  Cometh,  —  it  shineth ; 

The  dawn  is  day ; 
And  the  step  of  my  lover  ?  - 

It  comes  this  way. 

Ah,  the  sky,  —  it  chapgeth, 
The  rain,  —  the  sun. 

As  the  hope  that  we  cherish 
Is  lost  or  won. 


SONGS.  261 

What  care  for  the  shadows, 

If  hearts  be  gay  ? 
What  use  in  the  summer, 

If  friends  decay  ? 

The  bloom  of  the  seasons 

Will  come,  will  fly  ; 
And  the  heavens  will  alter, 

W^e  know  not  why  : 
But  the  mind  that  we  temper 

Is  our  domain ; 
And  the  Truth  of  the  Spirit 

Should  conquer  pain. 


LI.— THE  POOR-HOUSE. 


Close  at  the  edge  of  a  busy  town, 
A  huge  quadrangular  mansion  stands  ; 

Its  rooms  are  all  filled  with  the  parish  poor ; 
Its  walls  are  all  built  by  pauper  hands ; 

And  the  pauper  old  and  the  pauper  young 
Peer  out,  through  the  grates,  in  sullen  bands. 

II. 

Behind  is  a  patch  of  earth,  by  thorns 

Fenced  in  from  the  moor's  wide,  marshy  plains  ; 
By  the  side  is  a  gloomy  lane,  that  steals 

To  a  quarry  now  filled  with  years  of  rains : 


262  SONGS. 

But  within,  within  !     There  Poverty  scowls. 
Nursing  in  wrath  her  brood  of  pains. 

III. 
Enter  and  look !     In  the  high-walled  yards 

Fierce  men  are  pacing  the  barren  ground  : 
Enter  the  long,  bare  chambers  ;  —  girls 

And  women  are  sewing,  without  a  sound  ; 
Sewing  from  dawn  till  the  dismal  eve. 

And  not  a  laugh  or  a  song  goes  round. 

IV. 

No  communion,  —  no  kind  thought 
Dwells  in  the  pauper's  breast  of  care  ; 

Nothing  but  pain  in  the  grievous  past ; 
Nothing  to  come  but  the  black  despair  — 

Of  bread  in  prison,  bereft  of  friends, 
Or  Hunger,  out  in  the  open  air ! 


Where  is  the  bright-haired  girl,  that  once 
With  her  peasant  sire  was  used  to  play  ? 

Where  is  the  boy  whom  his  mother  blessed, 
Whose  eyes  were  a  light  on  her  weary  way  ? 

Apart,  —  barred  out  (so  the  law  ordains) ; 
Barred  out  from  each  other  by  night  and  day. 

VI. 

Letters  they  teach  in  their  infant  schools ; 

But  where  are  the  lessons  of  great  God  taught 


SONGS.  263 

Lessons  that  child  to  the  parent  bind, — 

Habits  of  duty,  —  love  unbought  ? 
Alas !  small  good  will  be  learned  in  schools 

Where  Nature  is  trampled  and  turned  to  nought, 

VII. 

Seventeen  summers,  and  where  the  girl 
Who  never  grew  up  at  her  father's  knee  ? 

Twenty  autumnal  storms  have  nursed 
The  pauper's  boyhood,  and  where  is  he  ? 

She  earneth  her  bread  in  the  midnight  lanes : 
He  toileth  in  chains  by  the  Southern  Sea. 

VIII. 

O  Power !    O  Prudence  !   Law  !  —  look  down 
From  your  heights  on  the  pining  poor  below  ! 

O  sever  not  hearts  which  God  hath  joined 
Together,  on  earth,  for  weal  and  woe  ! 

O  Senators  grave,  grave  truths  may  be. 

Which  ye  have  not  learned,  or  deigned  to  know. 

IX, 

O  Wealth,  come  forth  with  an  open  hand  ! 

O  Charity,  speak  with  a  softer  sound  ! 
Yield  pity  to  Age,  —  to  tender  Youth, — 

To  Love,  wherever  its  home  be  found ! 
,  .  .  But.  I  cease,  —  for  I  hear,  in  the  night  to  come, 
The  cannon's  blast,  and  the  rebel  drum. 

Shaking  the  firm-set  English  ground  ! 


264  SONGS. 


LII.— PACTORAL. 


The  girl  I  love  is  lowly  bom ; 

She  is  not  rich,  she  is  not  fair ; 
And  yet  her  presence  is  to  me 

Like  the  breath  of  the  morning  air. 

'T  is  fresh  with  thoughts  all  innocent ; 

'T  is  fragrant  with  the  words  of  love ; 
And  her  eyes  shed  blessings,  like  the  Dawn 

Opening  Heaven  above. 

For  these  and  other  things  I  love 
The  lowly,  love-born  child  of  earth  : 

Scorn  not :     How  many  love  for  less 
Than  a  thousandth  part  her  worth  ! 


LIII.  — THE  PALE  QUEEN. 

I  AM  the  Queen  anointed,  —  crowned  ; 
My  forehead  is  all  with  roses  bound, 

But  pale,  all  pale  ! 
With  rosemary  boughs  and  slips  of  yew. 
With  violets  shrunk,  and  lilies,  too, 

But  pale,  still  pale  ! 
I  am  the  Bride  whose  arms  are  wound 
About  my  lover  without  a  sound ; 
I  whisper  soft. 
And  he  flies  aloft, 

But  pale,  all  pale  ! 


SONGS.  265 

Whatever  I  will,  —  whate'er  I  say, 
Wherever  I  look,  —  all  things  obey  : 
From  the  iron  clown  to  the  kings  of  clay. 

My  words  ne'er  fail  : 
I  wither  the  bud,  and  the  passion  bloom  ; 
I  strip  the  rose  of  her  young  perfume  ; 
1  breathe  —  and  the  flower  doth  bear  no  fruit ; 
I  come  —  and  the  singer's  voice  is  mute ; 
The  harp  unstrung,  and  lost  the  lute  : 

And  trumpets  wail 
My  coming,  although  no  battle  's  near. 
And  burst  on  the  self-slain  soldier's  bier, 

And  hill  and  dale 
And  fountains  lone,  and  the  running  river, 
Sea  and  sea-shore, 

Hard  rocks,  and  mountains  cold  and  hoar. 
From  all  their  echoing  peaks  cry  out  for  ever, 

"  Hail !  hail !  hail ! " 

And  now,  pale  youth,  I  come  to  thee. 

Whose  home  is  under  the  willow-tree, 

And  thou  mayst  dream 

Where  it  dips  its  hair  in  the  fond,  fond  stream : 

But,  arise  !  —  arise  ! 
What  can  come  of  human  sighs. 
Lover's  sorrow,  —  weeping  eyes,  — 
When  all  that  cometh  quickly  flies  ? 
Arise,  and  leave  thy  buried  bride, 
And  come  with  me  to  tlie  water's  side, 


266 


Where  lilies  gay- 
Lie  sleeping  on  the  shining  tide, 
Which  flies  away 
Unto  the  ocean  far  and  wide, 

Day  after  day ! 
The  weeping  stars  will  be  ever  o'er  thee, 
And  she  thou  lov'st  is  gone  before  thee, 

So,  ne'er  delay : 
The  Past  is  lost,  the  Present  lone. 
So  we  will  fly  to  a  world  unknown ; 
And  be  as  thou  wishest,  sad  or  gay. 
Through  summer  and  spring,  and  winter  day 
Come  on  !     We  will  seek  thy  wasted  bride  : 
Behold,  —  I  am  Death,  the  amorous-eyed, 

Who  reign  for  aye  ! 


LIV.— THE  STARS. 

"Without  haste  aiiJ  without  rest." 

I. 

They  glide  upon  their  endless  way, 
For  ever  calm,  for  ever  bright ; 

No  blind  hurry,  no  delay, 

Mark  the  Daughters  of  the  Night 

They  follow  in  the  track  of  Day, 
In  divine  delight. 


SONGS.  267 

II. 
And,  O,  how  still  beneath  the  stars 

The  once  wild,  noisy  Earth  doth  lie  ! 
As  though  she  now  forsook  her  jars, 

And  caught  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 
Pride  sleeps  ;  and  Love  (with  all  his  scars) 

In  smiling  dreams  doth  lie. 

III. 
Shine  on,  sweet  orbed  Souls,  for  aye, 

For  ever  calm,  for  ever  bright: 
We  ask  not  whither  lies  your  way. 

Nor  whence  ye  came,  nor  what  your  light. 
Be,  still,  —  a  dream  throughout  the  day, 

A  blessing  through  the  night ! 


LV.— THE  LAST  STAVE. 

Without  friends,  and  without  money. 

Without  power,  without  fame. 
Earth  is  but  a  bitter  garden  ; 

Life  is  but  a  losing  game  : 
There  's  a  heart  within  my  bosom, 

(Ah,  I  know  it,  by  its  pain,) 
Swiftness  should  be  in  my  sinews. 

And  within  my  head  —  a  brain. 

Tell  me  how,  with  these  good  servants. 
Song  of  mine,  how  we  may  fare ; 


268  SONGS. 

We  have  but  a  paltry  lodging, 
'Neath  this  hedge,  in  open  air. 

Fain  would  I  behold  a  dinner ; 
But  such  visions  now  are  rare  : 

Peace  !     I  see  the  hawthorn  banquet : 
Come  ;  we  'II  join  the  sparrows  there. 

What  avail  are  sages,  —  muses. 

If  they  bring  not  comforts  nigh  ? 
Ha !  they  force  me  upwards  —  onwards  - 

Through  the  clouds  —  beyond  the  sky  • 
Comets  —  planets  —  whirl  around  me  — 

Storms  and  rains  are  rushing  by,  — 
Orb  on  orb  gives  out  its  music,  — 

I  am  breathless  —  God,  I  die  ! 


LVI.— THE  RISLNG  OF  THE  NORTR 
I. 

Hark,  —  to  the  sound  ! 
Without  a  trump,  without  a  drum. 
The  wild-eyed,  hungry  Millions  come. 
Along  the  echoing  ground. 

II. 
From  cellar  and  cave,  from  street  and  lane. 
Each  from  his  separate  place  of  pain, 
In  a  blackening  stream. 
Come  sick,  and  lame,  and  old,  and  poor, 
And  all  who  can  no  more  endure  ; 
Like  a  demon's  dream  ! 


SONGS.  2G9 

III. 

Starved  children  with  their  pauper  sire, 
And  laborers  with  their  fronts  of  fire, 
In  angry  hum, 

And  felons,  hunted  to  their  den, 
And  all  who  shame  the  name  of  men. 
By  millions  come. 

IV, 

The  good,  the  bad,  come  hand  in  hand, 
Linked  by  that  law  which  none  withstand ; 
And  at  their  head 

Flaps  no  proud  banner,  flaunting  high, 
But  a  shout,  sent  upwards  to  the  sky, 
Of  "  Bread  !  —  Bread  !  " 


That  word  their  ensign,  —  that  the  cause 
Which  bids  them  burst  the  social  laws, 
In  wrath,  in  pain  : 

That,  the  sole  boon  for  lives  of  toil. 
Demand  they  from  their  natural  soil :  — 
O,  not  in  vain  ! 

VI, 

One  single  year,  and  some  who  now 
Come  forth,  with  oaths  and  haggard  brow, 
Read  prayer  and  psalm. 
In  quiet  homes ;  their  sole  desire, 
Rude  comforts  near  their  cottage  fire, 
And  Sabbath  calm. 


270  SONGS. 

VII. 

But  Hunger  is  an  evil  foe  : 

It  striketh  Truth  and  Virtue  low, 

And  Pride  elate : 

Wild  Hunger,  stripped  of  hope  and  fear ! 

It  doth  not  weigh ;  it  will  not  hear ; 

It  cannot  wait. 

VIII. 

For  mark,  what  comes  :  —  To-night,  the  poor 

(All  mad)  will  burst  the  rich  man's  door, 

And  wine  will  run 

In  floods,  and  rafters  blazing  bright 

Will  paint  the  sky  with  crimson  light, 

Fierce  as  the  sun  ; 

IX. 

And  plate  carved  round  with  quaint  device, 
And  cups  all  gold,  will  melt,  like  ice 
In  Indian  heat ! 

And  queenly  silks,  from  foreign  lands. 
Will  bear  the  stamps  of  bloody  hands, 
And  trampling  feet : 

X. 

And  Murder  —  from  his  hideous  den 

Will  come  abroad  and  talk  to  men. 

Till  creatures  born 

For  good,  (whose  hearts  kind  Pity  nursed,) 

Will  act  the  direst  crimes  they  cursed. 

But  yester-morn. 


SONGS.  271 

XT. 

So,  Wealth  by  Want  will  be  o'erthrown. 
And  Want  be  strong  and  guilty  grown, 
Swollen  out  by  blood. 
Sweet  Peace  !  who  sitt'st  aloft,  sedate, 
Who  bind'st  the  little  to  the  great. 
Canst  Thou  not  charm  the  serpent  Hate  ? 
And  quell  this  feud  ? 

XII. 

Between  the  pomp  of  CrcEsus's  state. 
And  Irus,  starved  by  sullen  Fate, — 
'Tween  "  thee  "  and  "  me,"  — 
*Tween  deadly  Frost  and  scorching  Sun, — 
The  Thirty  tyrants  and  the  One,  — 
Some  space  must  be. 

XIII. 

Must  the  world  quail  to  absolute  kings. 
Or  tyrant  mobs,  those  meaner  things, 
All  nursed  in  gore,  — 

Turk's  bowstring,  —  Tartar's  vile  Ukase,  — 
Grim  Marat's  bloody  band,  who  pace 
From  shore  to  shore  } 

XIV. 

O  God  !  —  Since  our  bad  world  began, 

Thus  hath  it  been,  —  from  man  to  man 

War,  to  the  knife  ! 

For  bread  —  for  gold  —  for  words  —  for  air  ! 

Save  us,  O  God  !  and  hear  my  prayer ! 

Save,  save  from  shame, —  from  crime,  —  despair, 

Man's  puny  life ! 


272  SONGS. 


LVII.— THE  SEA  FIGHT. 
I. 

The  Sun  hath  ridden  into  the  sky, 
And  the  Night  gone  to  her  lair ; 

Yet  all  is  asleep 

On  the  mighty  Deep, 
And  all  in  the  calm,  gray  air. 

II. 
All  seemeth  as  calm  as  an  infeint's  dream, 
As  far  as  the  eye  may  ken : 

But  the  cannon  blast, 

That  just  now  passed. 
Hath  awakened  ten  thousand  men. 

III. 
An  order  is  blown  from  ship  to  ship  ; 
All  round  and  round  it  rings  ; 

And  each  sailor  is  stirred 

By  the  warlike  word, 
And  his  jacket  he  downwards  flings. 

IV. 

He  strippeth  his  arms  to  his  shoulders  strong ; 
He  girdeth  his  loins  about ; 

And  he  answers  the  cry 

Of  his  foemen  nigh. 
With  a  cheer  and  a  noble  shout. 


SONGS.  273 

r. 

What  follows  ?  —  a  puff,  and  a  flash  of  light, 
And  the  booming  of  a  gun  ; 

And  a  scream,  that  shoots 

To  the  heart's  red  roots, 
And  we  know  that  a  fight 's  begun. 

VI. 

A  thousand  shot  are  at  once  let  loose  : 
Each  flies  from  its  brazen  den, 

(Like  the  Plague's  swift  breath,) 

On  its  deed  of  death, 
And  smites  down  a  file  of  men. 

VII. 

The  guns  in  their  thick-tongued  thunder  speak, 
And  the  frigates  all  rock  and  ride. 

And  timbers  crash, 

And  the  mad  waves  dash. 
Foaming  all  far  and  wide  : 

VIII. 

And  high  as  the  skies  run  piercing  cries. 
All  telling  one  tale  of  woe, — 

That  the  struggle  still. 

Between  good  and  ill. 
Goes  on,  in  the  earth  below. 


18 


274  SONGS. 

IX. 

Day  pauses,  in  gloom,  on  his  western  road 
The  Moon  returns  again  : 

But,  of  all  who  looked  bright, 

In  the  morning  light. 
There  are  only  a  thousand  men. 

X. 

Look  up,  at  the  brooding  clouds  on  high ! 
Look  up,  at  the  awful  sun ! 

And,  behold,  —  the  sea  flood 

Is  all  red  with  blood  : 
Hush  !  —  a  battle  is  lost,  —  and  won  ! 


LVm.-THE  WRECK. 

I. 

O,  WHITHER  are  we  driven,  o'er  the  waters  so  free. 
With  the  vapors  all  around,  and  the  breakers  on  our  lee  ? 
Not  a  light  is  in  the  sky,  not  a  light  is  on  the  sea ! 

Ah,  me  !  ah,  me  ! 

II. 

We  are  hurried  to  our  doom :  O,  how  wild  and  how 

strong 
Are  the  billows  on  whose  bosom  we  are  beating  along ; 
And  the  Tempest  he  is  calling,  (hark,  how  terrible  his 

song!) 

For  thee !  for  me  ! 


SONGS.  275 

in. 

The  thunder  is  awakened  :  He  is  talking  to  the  Night: 
And  see  what  cometh  flooding  down  in  cataracts  of  light ; 
'T  is  his  paramour,  the  Lightning ;  she  withereth  my 
sight ; 

Ah,  me  !  ah,  me ! 

IV. 

O,  how  the  Storm  doth  follow  us  :  and  hearken  to  the 

Wind! 
He  is  round  us  ;  he  is  over  us ;  he  's  hurrying  behind  : 
He  is  tearing  me  (the  maniac,  so  cruel  and  so  blind,) 

From  thee,  from  thee  ! 

V. 

Stay,  stay,  I  hear  a  sound  amidst  the  washing  of  the  tide : 
It  glideth  by  our  vessel,  now,  wherever  we  do  glide  ; 
'T  is  the  whale  —  It  is  the  shark !  ah,  see,  he  turns  upon 
his  side  : 

Let 's  flee,  let 's  flee ! 

VI. 

Ha !  the  billows  they  are  rising ;  we  are  lifted  up  on 

high: 
We  are  all  amongst  the  clouds :  we  are  rushing  from 

the  sky, 
Down,  down,  into  the  waters — Ah,  have  pity !  for  I  die ; 

O,  Sea  !  Great  Sea ! 
[  The  boat  strikes.] 


276  SONGS. 


LK.  — THE  TIME  OF  CHARLEMAGNE. 


There  was  freedom  in  the  forest ; 

There  was  plenty  on  the  plain  ; 
Lusty  peasants,  noble  heroes, 

In  the  time  of  Charlemagne  : 
Right  was  right,  and  wrong  was  evil ; 

Truth  was  never  then  too  plain ; 
All  the  heart  came  forth  in  music, 

In  the  time  of  Charlemagne. 

II. 

Every  man  was  free  to  follow 

Bird,  or  wild  beast  to  its  den ; 
Every  man  maintained  his  quarrel 

With  the  sword  and  not  the  pen : 
Manly  thoughts  and  simple  habits 

Brought  us  health,  and  banished  pain  : 
We  have  changed,  —  (for  worse  or  better  ?) 

Since  the  time  of  Charlemagne. 

III. 
Beauty  won  her  bloom  from  Nature  ; 

Wives  were  constant,  maidens  true  ; 
Men  were  bold,  strong,  clear,  unbending. 

As  the  brave,  bright  steel  they  drew. 


SONGS.  277 

None  did  rise  but  by  his  merit ; 

None  did  sell  his  soul  for  gain ; 
Words  did  never  hide  man's  meaning, 

In  the  time  of  Charlemagne. 

IV. 

What  a  king !     He  fought  and  vanquished 

Lombard,  Saracen,  Saxon,  still 
Ruling  every  race  he  conquered 

With  a  deep,  consummate  skill. 
Once,  alone,  false  Fortune  checked  him,  — 

Once,  on  Roncesvalles'  plain  : 
Save  that  day,  all  else  was  cloudless 

Through  the  time  of  Charlemagne. 

V. 

But  —  he  died !  and  he  was  buried 

In  his  tomb  of  sculptured  stone  ; 
And  they  robed  and  placed  his  body 

Upright  on  his  golden  throne  : 
With  his  sword,  and  with  the  Bible, 

Which  through  life  he  did  maintain. 
All  strewn  o'er  with  gems  and  spices 

Sate  the  dead  king  Charlemagne ! 

VI. 

Since  his  time,  the  world  is  altered : 

Yet,  —  let  's  hope  to  see,  again, 
All  the  sword's  old  valor,  mingled 

With  the  wisdom  of  the  pen  : 


278  SONGS. 


Till  those  days  shall  come,  dear  Poets, 
Let  us  not  perplex  our  brain  ; 

But,  content,  love  truth  and  valor. 
Though  in  time  of  Charlemagne. 


LX.  — THE  APPROACH  OF  WINTER. 

Winter  cold  is  coming  on  ; 

No  more  calls  the  cuckoo  : 

No  more  doth  the  music  gush 

From  the  silver- throated  thrush  : 

No  more  now,  at  "  evening  pale," 

Singeth  sad  the  nightingale  ; 

Nor  the  blackbird  on  the  lawn ; 

Nor  the  lark  at  dewy  dawn  : 

Time  hath  wove'  his  songs  anew. 

No  more  young  and  dancing  measures  ; 

No  more  budding,  flowery  pleasures  : 

All  is  over,  —  all  forgot ; 

Save  by  me,  who  loved  them  not. 

Winter  white  is  coming  on  ; 

And  1  love  his  coming : 

What,  though  winds  the  fields  have  shorn,  • 

What,  though  earth  is  half  forlorn,  — 

Not  a  berry  on  the  thorn,  — 

Not  an  insect  humming ; 


279 


Pleasure  never  can  be  dead  ; 

Beauty  cannot  hide  her  head  ! 

Look !  in  what  fanteistic  showers 

The  snow  flings  down  her  feathered  flowers, 

Or  whirls  about,  in  drunken  glee. 

Kissing  its  love,  the  holly  tree. 

Behold  !  the  Sun  himself  comes  forth, 

And  sends  his  beams  from  south  to  north, — 

To  diamonds  turns  the  winter  rime. 

And  lends  a  glory  to  the  time ! 

Such  days,  when  old  friends  meet  together, 

Are  worth  a  score  of  mere  spring  weather ; 

And  hark !  —  the  merry  bells  awake  ; 

They  clamor  blithely  for  our  sake  ! 

The  clock  is  sounding  from  the  tower, 

"Four,"  —  "five," — 'tis  now 's  dinner-hour ! 

Come  on,  —  I  see  his  table  spread,  — 
The  sherry,  —  the  claret  rosy  red. 
The  champagne  sparkling  in  the  light,  — 
By  Bacchus !  we  '11  be  wise  to-night ! 


280 


SONGS. 


LXI.  — A  CHRISTMAS  REMINISCENCE. 

Do  you  still  remember 

When  you  and  I  were  young, 
How  the  merry  cricket  talked, 

How  the  throstle  sung  ? 
How  above  our  spring-tide 

Azure  heaven  hung  ? 
Ah !  the  times  were  merry  times, 

When  you  and  I  were  young ! 

Speed  was  in  my  footsteps ; 

Hope  was  in  mine  eye  ; 
And  the  soul  of  Poesy 

Was  my  dear  ally. 
Earth  was  then  as  beautiful, — 

Ay,  as  is  the  sky, 
When  I  looked  beside  me. 

And  saw  —  that  you  were  nigh. 

If  my  dreams  were  sinful, 

God  forgave  the  crime ; 
For  I  look  with  calmness 

Back  upon  my  prime. 
Have  you  quite  forgotten 

All  that  sunny  time, 
When  we  whispered  secrets — 

Not  to  be  told  in  rhyme  ? 


SONGS.  281 


Well,  —  our  springs  are  over, 

(O,  sweet  days  of  yore  !) 
Autumn  wild  surrounds  us, 

And  I  see  an  aspect  hoar, 
Like  angry  Winter,  frowning 

From  that  twilight  shore. 
Where  our  steps  are  hastening,  — 

To  return  no  more  ! 

Mourn  not :  we  inherited. 

With  our  gift  of  birth. 
Good  and  evil  mingled, — 

Tears  amidst  our  mirth. 
Thou  shah  be  remembered, 

For  thy  gentle  worth  ; 
And  I  HI  dream  that  regions 

Shine  beyond  the  earth. 


LXn.  — A  FAREWELL  TO  DECEINIBER. 

Old  December ! 

Art  thou  gone  ?  —  then  fare  thee  well ! 
Many  a  good  do  I  remember 

Of  thee,  that  I  fain  would  tell ; 
Many  a  dream  beyond  all  trouble  ; 
Many  a  feast  where  beer  did  bubble ; 
Many  a  jolly  beauty  toasted  ; 
Many  a  mighty  turkey  roasted ; 


282  SONGS. 

Laughing,  quaffing,  blusterous  weather, 

(Winds  and  rain,  a  song  together;) 

Friendship  glowing,  —  wine  a-flowing. 

Wit  beyond  the  proser's  knowing ! 

Ah,  December! 

I  remember 

Thee  and  thine,  perhaps  too  well. 

Let  the  trim  tea-totaller  talk 

Of  his  May  and  April  walk. 

All  amongst  the  insipid  flowers. 

Dawdling  with  the  vacant  Hours ; 

I —  amidst  the  blazing  night, 

Have  seen  vast  and  deep  delight,  — 

Pleeusure,  such  as  left  its  traces 

On  a  thousand  brightening  faces,  — 

Brightening  at  the  touch  of  Truth, 

(Like  Age  remembering  its  own  youth ;) 

For,  be  sure,  —  that  noble  Wine 

Is  Truth  !  —  and,  doubly  thus,  divine. 

Wine  !  —  It  opes  the  heart's  red  sluices. 
Letting  forth  those  generous  juices, 
Which  so  fertilize  our  clay. 
That  the  Night  transcends  the  Day : 
Virtues  then  spring  up  like  flowers ; 
Joy  comes  gladdening  all  the  hours ; 
Justice  takes  an  aspect  bland  ; 
Friendship  puts  forth  its  kind  hand : 
Every  thing  both  great  and  good 
Is  then  confessed,  and  understood : 


SONGS.  283 

No  more  fear  beside  the  flask  ; 

No  dull  spite  in  wisdom's  mask  : 

No  mean,  simmering,  simpering  blushes  :  — 

The  great  Soul  all-radiant  rushes 

Forth,  at  once,  on  the  social  ground. 

And  laugheth  as  the  glass  runs  round. 

For  these  reeisons,  old  December ! 

(For  these  reasons,  and  some  more 
Which  I  do  not  now  remember,) 

I  '11  still  love  thee,  as  of  yore. 

When  I  knew  no  woes  nor  pains. 

And  the  blood  ran  racing  through  my  veins, 

Stinging  every  nerve  with  pleasure, 

I  could  tread  the  merriest  measure, 

Dancing  till  I  met  the  Day ; 

And  could  drain  my  cup  alway ; 

And  could  whisper  —  soft  and  low  — 

Under  the  mystic  mistletoe. 

So  it  was ;  —  and  so,  old  friend, 

When  this  year  shall  near  its  end. 

If  gray  Age  and  Fate  permit, 

I  will  face  thee  in  thy  wit,  — 

In  thy  wit  and  wine  arrayed. 

What  care  I  how  many  a  maid 

Laugheth  in  thy  frosty  train ; 

I  will  dare  their  worst,  again. 

Let  who  will  forsake  the  wine. 

At  my  right  hand  it  shall  shine 


284  SONGS. 

Like  a  blessing,  —  as,  in  truth, 
'T  is  to  age  as  well  as  youth. 

Now,  farewell !  and  for  my  sake, 

Bid  thy  fellow  Months  be  kind, 
And  not  a  merry  Spirit  take, 

Nor  one  of  true  or  gentle  mind. 
In  requital,  —  Friends,  remember  ! 

We  will  all  assemble  round. 

When  next  the  winter  strews  the  ground, 
And  drink  a  health  to  old  December ! 


LXin.— THE  MODERN  CYMON. 

"  The  Lunatic,  the  Lover,  and  the  Poel." 

I. 

You  bid  me  tell  you,  why  I  rise 

At  midnight  from  my  lonely  bed, 
And  search  amongst  the  coming  clouds. 

And  talk  as  though  I  saw  the  dead  : 
You  speak  of  madness  —  of  the  moon  — 

I  've  heard  such  idle  jeers  before  : 
Give  me  your  patience  for  my  tale. 

And  you  shall  deem  me  mad  no  more. 

II. 
I  was  not  born  of  noble  race  : 

I  know  a  peasant  was  my  sire ; 
But,  from  my  mother's  breast,  I  sucked 

The  milk  that  filled  my  blood  with  fire. 


SONGS.  285 

I  ran,  as  wild  as  doth  the  wolf, 

About  the  fields  for  many  years  : 
But,  in  my  twentieth  summer.  Thought 

Sprang  upwards,  in  a  rain  of  tears. 

ni. 

A  sudden  chance  (if  chance  it  were) 

Flung  me  across  a  marriage  train  ; 
And  there  I  saw  a  wretched  girl 

Forced  onwards,  while  she  wept  in  vain. 
I  never  saw  so  fair  a  thing  : 

My  eyes  were  hot  within  my  head : 
I  heard  her  scream  —  I  saw  her  forced 

(By  a  brother)  towards  a  brute  —  and  wed. 

IV. 

I  sought  the  hills,  —  I  sought  the  woods  ; 

My  heart  was  bursting  in  my  breast : 
At  lEist  tears  rushed  in  rivers  forth, 

And,  for  a  time,  I  felt  at  rest. 
Those  tears !  they  washed  from  off  my  eyes 

The  cloudy  film  that  on  them  lay ; 
And  1  awoke,  and  saw  the  light. 

And  knew  I  did  behold  the  Day. 

r. 

Till  then,  I  had  but  been  a  beast, 

Had  let  mere  savage  will  prevail ; 
Was  ignorant  —  sullen  —  fierce  ;  till  Love  — 

(You  have  some  fable,  like  my  tale,) 


286  SONGS. 

Till  Love  flew  forth  and  touched  my  heart : 
Then,  all  at  once,  my  Spirit  strong 

Swelled  upwards,  like  a  torrent  dammed, 
And  forced  its  furious  way  along. 

VI. 

I  read  —  I  learned  —  I  thought  —  I  loved  ! 

(For  Love  was  all  the  motive  then  ;) 
And  one,  who  was  a  friend,  gave  help. 

And  I  went  forth  and  mixed  with  men  : 
I  talked  with  him  they  called  her  lord  : 

I  talked  with  Her  —  who  was  a  bride 
Through  fraud  and  force  and  rapine  ;  —  God  ! 

She  spoke  :  —  I  think  I  could  have  died  ! 

VII, 

I  heard  her  words  :  I  saw  her  eyes. 

Where  patient  mingled  with  the  sad  : 
I  felt  her  breath  upon  my  cheek ; 

Its  perfume  did  not  drive  me  mad  : 
I  listened  dumbly  to  her  wrongs,  — 

Imprisoned,  struck,  despised,  deceived  ; 
And,  in  my  heart,  I  heard  a  voice 

Cry  out  "  Revenge  !  "  — and  I  believed  ! 

VIII, 

Still,  Time  wore  on  ;  and  efforts  vain 
Were  made  to  bend  the  Daemon's  will ; 

To  wean  him  from  the  wrong  to  right ; 
But  he  was  base  and  cruel  still. 


SONGS.  287 

Such  deeds  he  did  !     Romance  hath  bared 
The  truth  of  many  a  hellish  crime  ; 

But  never  yet  did  Fiction  dream 
Of  half  that  I  could  tell  in  rhyme. 

IX. 

Suffice  it ;  all  things  have  an  end. 

There  is  an  end,  where  mortal  pain 
Must  stop,  and  can  endure  no  more  : 

This  limit  did  we  now  attain  : 
For  Hope  —  sweet  Patience  —  Virtue  fled  ! 

I  did  what  she  could  never  dare  ; 
I  cut  the  canker  from  her  side  ; 

And  bore  her  off —  to  healthier  air  ! 

X. 

Far  —  far  away  !     She  never  knew 

That  I  had  blood  upon  my  breast : 
And  yet,  (although  she  loved  me  much,) 

I  know  not  why,  she  could  not  rest. 
I  strove  to  cheer  her  love,  —  to  stir 

Her  pride,  —  but,  ah,  she  had  no  pride  ! 
We  loved  each  other ;  —  yet  she  pined  : 

We  loved  each  other  ;  —  yet  she  died  ! 

XI. 

She  died,  as  fading  roses  die, 

Although  the  warm  and  healing  air 

Comes  breathing  forth  and  wraps  them  round : 
She  died,  despite  my  love  and  care. 


288  SONGS. 

I  placed  her,  gently,  in  the  lead  ; 

I  smoothed  her  hair,  as  it  should  be ; 
And  drew  a  promise,  —  what  she  vowed 

Is  a  secret  'tween  my  soul  and  me ! 

XII. 

She  died  ;  and  yet  I  have  her  still,  — 

Carved,  softly,  in  Carrara  stone  ; 
And  in  my  chamber  she  abides, 

Sitting  in  silence,  —  all  alone  ; 
Alone,  save  when  the  midnight  Moon 

Her  calm  and  spotless  bosom  seeks  : 
Then^  she  unclasps  her  marble  hands, 

And  moves  her  marble  lips,  —  and  speaks ! 

XIII. 

And  this  is  why  I  restless  seem  ; 

And  this  is  why  I  always  rise 
At  midnight  still  throughout  the  year, 

And  look  for  comfort  in  the  skies  : 
For  then  the  angel  of  my  heart 

Awakens  from  her  sleep  of  stone  ; 
And  we  exchange  sweet  hopes  and  thoughts, 

In  words  unto  the  earth  unknown. 

XIV. 

Now,  —  tell  me  ;  Am  I  mad  ?  —  Who  's  He 
That  stares,  and  gibbers  at  me  there  ? 

J  know  him  :  —  there  's  his  crooked  claw ; 
His  glittering  eye  ;  his  snaky  hair  : 


289 


Begone  !  —  he  's  gone.  —  Excuse  me,  Sir : 
These  fellows  often  pinch  my  brain  ; 

(I  know  full  well  who  spurs  them  on  ;) 
But  —  as  you  see  —  they  tease  in  vain. 


LXIV.— THE  POOR  SCHOLAR'S  SOXG. 

Death,  old  fellow  !     Have  we  then 

Come  at  last  so  near  each  other  ? 
Well,  —  shake  hands ;  and  be  to  me 

A  quiet  friend,  a  faithful  brother. 

All  those  merry  days  are  gone  ; 

Gone  whh  cash,  and  health,  old  fellow  ! 
When  I  read  long  days  and  nights. 

And  sometimes  (with  a  friend)  got  mellow. 

Newton  !  Euclid  !  fine  old  ghosts  ! 

Noble  books  of  old  Greek  learning ! 
Ah  !  ye  left  huge  aches  behind  ; 

Head  and  heart  and  brain  all  burning. 

How  I  toiled  !     For  one,  now  fled, 

I  wore  down  the  midnight  taper. 
Laboring,  —  dreaming  ;  till  one  day 

I  'woke,  and  found  my  life  —  a  vapor. 

Yet,  1  hoped  (ah,  laugh  not  now) 

For  wealth,  and  health,  and  fame,  —  the  bubble  ! 
19 


290  SONGS. 

So  I  climbed  up  Wisdom's  steeps, 
And  got  a  fall,  boy,  for  my  trouble. 

Now  all 's  over  :  No  one  helped, 

No  one  cheered  my  strong  endeavor  ; 

So  I  sank,  and  called  on  thee ; 

And  Thou  ''It  be  my  friend  for  ever. 


LXV— RIND  AND  FRUIT. 

You  may  boast  of  jewels,  —  coronets,  — 

Ermine,  —  purple,  —  all  you  can  : 
There  is  that  within  them  nobler  ;  — 

Something  that  we  call  — A  Man  ! 
Something  all  the  rest  surpassing : 

As  the  flower  is  to  the  sod  ; 
As  to  man  is  high  archangel ; 

As  is  to  archangel  —  God  ! 

Running  o'er  with  tears  and  weakness  ; 

Flaming  like  a  mountain  fire  ; 
Racked  by  hate  and  hateful  passions ; 

Tossed  about  by  wild  desire  ; 
There  is,  still,  within  him,  (mingled 

"With  each  fault  that  dims  or  mars,) 
Truth,  and  Pity,  —  Virtue,  —  Courage,  — 

Thoughts,  —  that  fly  beyond  the  stars  ! 

You,  who  prize  the  book's  poor  paper 
Above  its  thoughts  of  joy  and  pain ; 


291 


You  who  love  the  cloud's  bright  vapor 
More  than  its  soul, —  the  blessing,  rain  ; 

Take  the  gems,  the  crowns,  the  erniine  ; 

Use  them  nobly  if  you  can  : 
But  give  us  —  (in  rags  or  purple). 

The  true,  warm,  strong  Heart  of  Man. 


LXVI.  — THE  PROPHET. 

I. 

Day  broke  :  —  The  Morning  of  a  mighty  year 

Came  forth,  and  smiled  ; 
And,  in  its  sunny  arms  (like  waters  clear) 

It  bore  —  a  child. 

11. 
Time  flew  :  —  Quick  life  along  his  arteries  sang  ; 

Love's  pulses  beat : 
And  from  his  burning  temples  Thought  outsprang. 

And  Truth,  complete. 

in. 
Time  flew  :  —  The  brightness  of  a  Poet's  sight. 

Enlarged  his  eye  ; 
And  Strength  and  Courage  knit  his  limbs  for  fight. 

To  live,  —  or  die. 

IV. 

Time  flew  :  —  Sad  Wisdom  from  ^his  heart  arose, 
And  touched  his  brain  ; 


292  SONGS. 

And  he  stood  up,  'midst  all  a  prophet's  woes, 
And  spoke,  —  in  vain ! 

V. 

He  spoke  :  —  Men  hearkened  to  his  piercing  cry, 

With  smiles,  with  scorn  ; 
But  the  dim  Futtjre  felt  his  threatenings  nigh, 

And  shook,  —  unborn  ! 

VI. 

He  died :  and  race  to  race  did  still  succeed  ; 

And  suns  did  shine  ; 
And  Centuries  passed  ;  and  still  no  eye  could  read 

His  awful  line. 

VII. 

You  mourn  ?  —  Mourn  not ;  nor  deem  his  history  vain ; 

Nor  vain  his  strife  : 
To  breathe,  to  feel,  to  hope,  are  worth  the  pain 

Of  Death,  and  Life  : 

VIII. 

And  now,  (as  generations  rise,  and  far 

Like  vapors  roll,) 
Some  few  begin  to  gaze,  as  on  a  star, 

And  scan  his  scroll : 

IX. 

And,  in  its  mspiration,  vaguely  shown, 

We  seem  to  trace 
The  march  of  revolutions,  come  and  flown  ; 

And  of  man's  race 


SONGS.  293 

X. 

The  history.     Amidst  blots,  of  blood  and  tears, 

The  verses  run, 
Until  we  lose  their  light  in  distant  years, 

And  —  all  is  done  ! 


LXVII.— SIT  NEAR!    SIT  NEAR! 

Sit  near  !  sit  near  !  I  kiss  thy  lips. 
Ripe,  richer  than  the  crimson  cherry. 

Girl,  canst  thou  love  me  in  eclipse  ? 
Tell  me,  and  bid  my  soul  be  merry. 

My  light  is  dim,  my  fortune  fled  ; 

I  've  nothing  save  the  love  I  bear  thee. 
Give  back  thy  love,  or  I  am  dead  ;  — 

A  word,  —  a  look,  —  whilst  I  can  hear  thee. 

Sit  nearer  !  near  !     I  kiss  thine  eyes  ; 

There,  —  where  the  white  lids  part  asunder. 
I  love  thee,  —  dost  thou  hear  my  sighs  .''  . 

Love  thee  beyond  the  world,  thou  wonder  ? 

My  life  is  spent.  I  've  nothing  left 
To  tender  now,  save  love's  soft  duty  ; 

Yet,  gaze  I,  —  of  all  else  bereft,  — 
And  feed  till  death  upon  thy  beauty. 


294  SONGS. 


LXVm.— THE  MOTHER'S  LAST  SONG. 

Sleep  !  —  The  ghostly  winds  are  blowing : 
No  moon  abroad,  —  no  star  is  glowing  : 
The  river  is  deep,  and  the  tide  is  flowing 
To  the  land  where  you  and  I  are  going  ! 

We  are  going  afar. 

Beyond  moon  or  star, 
To  the  land  where  the  sinless  angels  are ! 

I  lost  my  heart  to  your  heartless  sire, 
('T  was  melted  away  by  his  looks  of  fire  ;) 
Forgot  my  God,  and  my  father's  ire, 
All  for  the  sake  of  a  man's  desire  ; 

But  now  we  '11  go 

Where  the  waters  flow, 
And  make  us  a  bed  where  none  shall  know. 

The  world  is  cruel,  — the  world  is  untrue  ; 
Our  foes  are  many,  our  friends  are  few  ; 
No  work,  no  bread,  however  we  sue  ! 
What  is  there  left  for  me  to  do, 
But  fly,  —  fly 
From  the  cruel  sky, 
And  hide  in  the  deepest  deeps  —  and  die  ! 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS 


PART    THE    FIRST. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS, 


PART    THE    FIRST. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  A  DRAMA  (1821). 

Scene.  —  A  Wilderness  in  Spain.  The  place  is  dark 
with  trees  ;  and  the  ground  hidden  by  fern  and  the 
entangled  under grovjth  of  the  forest.  Various  birds 
and  animals  are  seen.,  scattered  about. 

ANIMALI   PARLANTI. 

1  Raven.  Look  above  thee,  brother !  —  Look  ! 

Crow.  Cousin,  quit  the  wizard's  book. 
Leave  the  adder  to  die  alone  : 
Study  no  more  the  thunder-stone  : 
Quit  the  hemlock's  seething  must ; 
And  Hell's  black  volcanic  dust. 

1  Rav.  Look  above  thee,  —  in  the  air! 
Crow.  Ho,  ho !     Is  it  not  a  vision  rare  } 

2  Rav.     They  hover,  and  hover. 
Now  under,  now  over 


298  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

The  cloud  which  is  growing  warm 
With  the  kindling  light  of  the  coming  storm. 
Ci^ow.  Hark,  i'  the  air ! 

1  Rav.  And  the  earth  ! 

2  Rav.  Ah,  ha  !  she  starts  at  an  evil  birth. 
She  heaves,  she  heaves. 

And  the  shaking  leaves 

Grow  parched,  and  the  wind  a  sad  music  weaves. 

Crow.  Look  !     One  has  shot  down  like  a  star. 

2  Rav.  But  the  other  is  soaring  far, 
Like  a  Spirit  that  seeks  the  sun, 
When  his  errand  below,  in  the  dust,  is  done. 

1  Monkey.  Mark  the  raven  :  note  the  rook  ! 
What  do  Ihey  with  the  Devil's  book  ? 

2  Mon.  Stupid  wretches  ! 

1  Mon.  And  the  crow  ? 
What  should  such  lumps  of  feathers  know  ? 
They  're  fit  for  nought, 

In  my  poor  thought, 

But  to  trick  out  a  funeral  raree-show. 

2  Mon.  Peace,  son  ;  they  are  but  birds,  you  know 
They  can't  distinguish  right  from  wrong. 

1  Mon.  I  '11  teach  'em  to  subtract  ere  long. 

2  Mon.  We  '11  try,  some  day,  what  can  be  done. 
In  the  mean  time,  't  is  fit,  my  son, 

We  from  them  get  whate'er  we  can  :, 

And  much  we  may  do, 

If  we  mind  our  cue. 

For  a  monkey  is  much  on  a  par  with  man  : 

There  's  a  difference 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  299 

Parrot.  Ho !     I  shall  crack  my  side. 

2  Mon.  Though  few  see  't,  till  we  sit  side  by  side. 
On  the  one  hand,  a  man  has  a  longer  nose, 
And  struts  in  clean  linen,  wherever  he  goes : 
But  what  has  he  like  to  the  monkey's  tail  J 

Par.  Ho,  ho  !  —  Ho,  ho  ! 

2  Mon.  Then  he  has  n't  such  grace, 
Nor  so  fine  a  face : 
These  things  must  be  thrown  in  the  opposite  scale. 

Oicls.  Hur-ruh !  —  Hur-ruh !  [Distant  thunder. 

Vulture.  The  tyrant  Tempest  is  coming ! 
He  strives  to  hold  his  breath  : 
But  I  smell  him,  and  hear  him  humming 
The  beautiful,  terrible  tune  of  Death. 

Starling.  Death  !  —  Death  ! 

Snake.  He  is  creeping  amongst  the  leaves  : 
He  ruffles  the  moss  and  flowers  : 
He  is  cunning ;  but  who  deceives 
The  snake  in  her  watchful  hours  .' 

Dove.  He  cometh  :  yet  I  must  stay  ; 
For  my  lover  will  come,  who  is  far  away 
In  the  distant  showers. 

Nightingale.  And  nothing  shall  force  me  fly  ; 
For  hither  I  came  to  die 
In  the  dark  pine  bowers. 

Rat.  Dost  hear  'em  clatter  ?     Let 's  run,  let 's  run  ; 
The  ruin  (I  feel  it)  has  just  begun. 
Save  yourselves,  brothers,  and  stay  for  none. 


300  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

[  Clouds  gather  overhead.  —  Chorus.] 

The  sky  is  clothed  in  rain  ; 

The  clouds  are  big  with  thunder : 

And  the  hills  all  shake  with  a  spasm  pain ; 

For  Spirits,  above  and  under, 

Are  shouting,  —  from  steep  to  steep. 

All  over  the  airy  deep  ; 

And  thorough  the  caves  and  veins. 

Where  Mammon  the  monarch  reigns ; 

And  witches  are  calling 

From  wood  to  wood  ; 

And  comets  are  falling 

In  swamp  and  flood  ! 

Owls.  Hur-ruh !  —  Hur-ruh  ! 

[A  Shadow  passes  across.] 

A  Voice.  Make  way ! 
And  welcome  the  Spirit  that  floats  this  way  : 
Do  ye  hear,  my  slaves  ? 

Snake.  O  Master  gray ! 

Thy  servants  are  listening :  they  obey. 

[Chorus  continues  ] 

He  comes !     He  comes !     Rejoice,  rejoice  ! 
Great  Forest,  with  all  thy  voice  1 

1  Voice.  He  comes  ! 
The  Master  of  mind  and  breath  ; 
The  Ghost  that  unlocketh  the  door  of  Death  ; 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  301 

Who  turneth  the  hinge  of  the  coffin  down  ; 

Who  laugheth  at  bauble  and  tinsel  crown  ; 

Who  opens  the  lid, 

And  shows  what 's  hid, 

Whether  't  be  king  or  a  lowly  clown. 

2  Voice.  He  comes ! 
Arise,  and  shake  off  your  tears. 
Ashes  and  Oaks  of  a  thousand  years ! 

All  Trees  who  have  name,  from  Pine  to  Palm, 
Be  quick  and  strip  off  your  sunset  calm. 
He  comes,  —  with  the  evening  pale  ; 
Arise  !  and  bid  the  Magician  hail ! 

3  Voice.  He  comes ! 
Elements  sleeping,  awake  again  ! 
Shout  with  your  voices  of  wind  and  rain  ! 
And  Thou  in  the  cloud. 

Alive  and  loud. 

Come  forth  on  the  back  of  the  Hurricane ! 

Thunder  and  Tempest  and  Lightning  pale. 

Leap  from  your  caverns  and  cry,  —  "All  Hail  ! " 


302  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 


FRAGMENT& 

1 .  —  The  Valley  of  Ladies. 

Neiph.  Come  on,  come  on.  —  A  little  further  on. 
And  we  shall  reach  a  place  where  we  may  pause. 
It  is  a  meadow  full  of  the  early  spring : 
Tall  grass  is  there  which  dallies  with  the  wind, 
And  never-ending  odorous  lemon-trees  ; 
Wild  flowers  in  blossom,  and  sweet  citron-buds, 
And  princely  cedars ;  and  the  linden-boughs 
Make  arched  walks  for  love  to  whisper  in. 
If  you  be  tired,  lie  down,  and  you  shall  hear 
A  river,  which  doth  kiss  irregular  banks, 
Enchant  your  senses  with  a  sleepy  tune. 
If  not,  and  merry  blood  doth  stir  your  veins, 
The  place  hath  still  a  fair  and  pleasant  aspect : 
For,  in  the  midst  of  this  green  meadow,  springs 
A  fountain  of  white  marble ;  o'er  whose  sides 
Run  stories,  graven  by  some  cunning  hand. 
Of  pastoral  life,  and  tipsy  revelry. 
There  will  we,  'midst  delicious  cates,  and  wines 
Sparkling  and  amorous,  and  sweet  instruments. 
Sing  gentle  mischief  as  the  sun  goes  down. 
Quick  !  but  a  few  steps  more,  —  'round  by  this  copse 
Of  olives  and  young  chestnuts,  (to  whose  arms 
The  vines  seem  clinging,  like  so  many  brides,) 
And  you  will  reach  't.   Ha !  —  Stay !  —  Look !  here  it  is. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMEXTS.  303 

Fiamet.  Pa,  ha  !  Ha,  ha !  —  Look  !  how  Philostratus 
Buries  his  forehead  in  the  fresh  green  grass. 

Pamphilus.  Hail,  vernal  spot !     We  bear  to  thy  em- 
brace 
Pleasures  that  ask  for  calm ;  Love,  and  Delight ; 
Harmonious  pulses  where  no  evil  dwells ; 
Smiles  without  treach'ry  ;  words  all  soft  and  true  ; 
Music  like  morning,  fresh  and  full  of  youth, 
And  all  else  that  belongs  to  gentleness. 

2.  —  An  Ulilitarian. 

He  is  a  slave  to  Science.     He  would  pull 
Great  Heaven  to  pieces ;  and  anatomize 
Each  fragment  of  its  crj'^stal  battlements  ; 
Weigh  out  its  hymns ;  divide  its  light,  and  class 
The  radiant  feathers  of  Archangels'  wings. 
Do  we  not  know,  —  doth  he  not  know,  that  still 
Mysterious  Wonder  aye  must  reign  above  us ; 
Struggle  howe'er  we  may  ?     Doth  he  not  know 
That  Adoration  and  great  Wonder,  (like 
Good  deeds  which  bless  the  giver,)  ever  lift 
The  Soul  above  the  dust,  and  strengthen  us  ? 

3.  —  The  Uses  of  Courage. 

Pity  me  not :  I  am  not  without  joy. 

Within  the  shadow  of  a  grand  Despair, 

Proud  thoughts  abide  ;  which  with  their  stately  strength 

Maintain  the  Spirit  in  its  resolute  path. 


304  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

Be  sure  of  this  :  brave  men  do  not  resign 
All  Heaven  with  love.     He  who  can  walk  alone 
Unto  his  grave,  and  (conquering  his  own  heart) 
Force  the  black  Future,  till  its  seeming  Void 
Grows  populous  with  shapes,  and  yields  to  him, 
Its  regions  subject,  is  not  without  joy  ; 
But  like  some  warrior,  who,  the  day  being  won, 
Strides  on  triumphant  amidst  heaps  of  slain ; 
All  pain  and  wounds  forgot. 

4.  —  Life  everywhere. 

Call  not  these  things  inanimate,  —  the  trees, 

The  grass,  the  herbs,  the  flowers.     A  busy  life 

Dwells  in  their  seething  limbs  ;  and,  as  soft  blooms 

Unfold  themselves  unto  the  alluring  Sun, 

Fond  music,  (which  we  hear  not,)  mystic  odors, 

Accompany  their  soft  confessions.     Thus, 

One  springs  and  fades,  —  then  others  come,  —  whilst 

sighs 
Exhale  from  each  unto  the  listening  air. 
Telling  through  all  its  course,  (from  life  to  death, 
From  verdant  spring-time  until  autumn  sere,) 
The  same  eternal  story. 

5.  —  Fame  the  Offspring  of  Fortune. 

A.                                Had  he  but  lived 
With  Fortune  for  his  mate,  and  such  a  stage 
To  play  his  part  on,  as  some  spirits  have  had, 
He  would  have  been 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  305 

B.  A  king  ? 

A.  A  man!  what  else, 
King,  Emperor,  Tyrant,  Shah,  would  matter  not. 

He  would  have  been  —  a  Name  ;  such  as  of  old 
Grew  into  Gods ! 

B.  And  so  he  died  ? 

A.  He  died, 

And  not  a  verse  did  honor  him.     His  doom 
Was  writ  already  ;  and  his  star  was  cfilled 
—  Oblivion  ! 


6. — Love  independent  of  Reason. 

Love  follows  not  desert,  but  accident. 

We  love  —  because  we  love :  I  know  no  more. 

'T  is  not  great  thoughts,  nor  noble  qualities. 

Nor  conduct  pure,  compel  it.     These  rather  challenge 

Our  deep  respect  than  Love  :  That  sweet  emotion 

Owes  to  our  tender  hearts  its  gentle  force, 

And  scorns  all  meaner  reason. 

7.  —  A  Jester ;  from  the  antique. 

A.  You  're  merry,  Lovelace  ? 

L.  I  am  always  meriy. 

When  I  came  sprawling  into  this  brave  world, 
My  mother  laughed,  and  could  not  feel  her  pains : 
The  midwife  tittered,  and  the  nurse  did  smooth 
Her  grave  and  wrinkled  apron  with  a  smile. 
I  grinned  ere  I  could  talk  ;  reaped  all  my  learning 
20 


306  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

Out  of  a  jest-book  ;  and,  ere  I  was  man, 
Was  a  felon  by  each  law  of  gravity. 
When  I  do  right,  I  laugh ;  't  is  self-approval : 
And  when  I  'm  wrong,  I  laugh  :  it  comforts  me. 
I  laugh  at  folly,  much  ;  at  wisdom,  more  : 
The  first  by  common  rule,  the  last  because 
'T  is  my  peculiar  game ;  and  I  note  often, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  grave  man's  frown, 
A  foolscap  dancing,  —  nay,  I  hear  the  bells, 
And  burst  abroad  in  monstrous  merriment. 

A.  You  are  the  wiser  man.     If  I  could  see 
The  Sun,  as  thou  dost,  through  impervious  clouds, 
I  might  be  happier.     As  it  is,  I  bear 
The  grievous  load  of  life,  which  poor  men  carry. 
As  loosely  as  I  may. 

L.  What  ails  thee  now  ? 
Come,  thou  hast  lost  a  kitten  in  the  mumps  ? 
Thy  maid  has  cracked  her  garter  ?     Thou  hast  heard 
Thy  pig  is  gone  astray,  and  's  put  i'  the  pound  ? 
Not  so  ?     Why  then  thy  parsley-bed  has  failed  ? 
There  are  no  hopes  of  apples  ?     The  last  clutch 
Of  chickens  do  not  thrive  as  thou  expect'st } 
Or  else,  some  brown-skinned  wench,  whose  eyebrows 

meet, 
Has  sworn  a  child  to  another,  —  and  't  is  thine  .•• 

A.  Peace,  peace  !     Wilt  lend  xhe  a  crown .? 

L.  Bah !     Is  that  all  ? 
Why,  ay :  I  '11  do  much  more,  for  one  like  thee, 
Whom  I  would  fain  laugh  out  of  poverty. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  307 

8.  —  A  Case  of  Witchcraft. 

A.  I  REMEMBER, 

When  first  she  saw  him,  how  her  dark  orbs  drew 
His  soul  aside.     Her  voice  (that  sweet  witch-music) 
Bound  him  in  trance ;  and  so  she  floated  round, 
Taking  him  prisoner  with  her  golden  hair ;  — 

B.  Almost  a  Parasite  ? 

A.  'T  was  even  so  : 

She  wound  about  him,  with  her  leaves  and  thorns ; 
Hid  him  in  roses,  preyed  upon  his  strength ; 
And  so  at  last  he  perished.     Peace  be  with  him ! 

9.  —  Mesalliance. 

A.  You  ask,  why  am  I  sad  }  —  Give  ear  to  me  :  — 
When  1  was  young,  I  was  a  fool,  —  and  married. 
The  girl  I  wed  was  like  a  bright  June  morning ; 
Fresh,  fragrant,  dewy-lipped,  and  azure-eyed, 

And  floated  onward  with  a  cloud-like  motion ; 
And  when  she  owned  her  love  for  me,  her  cheek 
Out-blushed  the  burning  sun  at  Midsummer. 

B.  And  yet  you  were  a  fool  ? 

A.  Ay,  a  mad  fool. 

For,  look,  —  she  was  more  humble  than  the  dust ; 
A  peasant's  daughter.     I,  who  track  my  line 
Even  unto  fable,  and  am  honor-bound 
To  keep  my  golden  lineage  unalloyed. 
Did  wrong  to  heroes  and  to  kings,  my  sires, 
To  mix  their  blood  with  baseness. 


308  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 


10.  —  Resolution. 

Let  us  go  forth  and  tread  down  fate  together. 
We  '11  be  companions  of  the  gusty  winds ; 
Laugh  loud  at  hunger ;  conquer  want ;  out-curse 
The  fierceness  of  the  howling  wilderness. 
Firm  here ;  or  bolder  onwards  ;  that  's  our  way. 
He  who  gives  back  a  foot,  gives  vantage  ground 
To  whatsoever  is  his  enemy. 


n .  —  Ascending  Visions. 

A.  Within  yon  antique  rooms 
Great  Powers  abide,  which  guard  this  place  from  wrong ; 
The  strength  of  Michael ;  RafFaelle's  angel  grace  ; 
Grave  Titian's  splendor ;  Paolo's  sunset  dreams  : 

And  Deities,  who  once  (so  poets  write) 

Dwelt  on  Olympus,  from  their  heights  come  down, 

And  sit  all  round  in  marble  ! 

B.  Let  us  go  in. 
****** 

A.  Stand  here,  and  gaze  thy  fill  on  beauteous  Art! 
—  Now,  look  beyond,  —  beyond  its  deeds  or  dreams, 
And  thou  wilt  see  the  Spirits  of  human  power, 
Creators  of  the  things  which  shine  below. 
Pause  not !  but  let  thine  aspirations  still 
Ascend  :  for  wondrous  regions  lie  beyond  ; 
Whose  mystic  heights,  whose  darkness  calm  and  holy. 
No  star  can  penetrate.     There  dwells  the  Thought,  — 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  309 

The  Power,  the  Spirit  of  Good,  from  whence  all  else 
Derive  their  purpose  and  their  origin. 

12.— The  New  Year. 

Time  slips  from  under  us.     The  Year  is  gone  ! 

And  now  —  what  comes  ?     Hark  to  the  headlong  bells. 

Whose  sudden  cries  shoot  through  the  circling  air, 

Like  lightning  through  the  dark.     What  birth  is  next  ? 

The  Year,  —  the  new-bom  Year !   Cold,  weak,  and  pale. 

She  enters  on  her  round.     No  flowers  awake 

To  herald  her :  no  winds  start  forth,  to  pipe 

Their  Bacchanalian  welcomes  in  her  ear : 

But  Silence  and  inanimate  Nature  lie 

In  watch,  awaiting  her  first  look  serene  ; 

And,  deep  within  her  breast,  what  marvels  sleep ; 

What  deeds  of  good  and  ill  ;  what  dreams,  —  desires, 

Flowers  like  the  stars,  and  thoughts  beyond  the  flowers  ; 

Laughing  delights,  mute  woes,  passionate  tears  ; 

And  kindness,  human  sunshine,  softening  all ! 

13.  — Life  and  Death. 

A.  You,  in  your  fierce  desire  to  vanquish  me. 
Forget  this  truth  :  —  The  Gods  who  give  us  life, 
Give  Its  death  also  ! 

B.  Both  are  good  :  —  What  better, 
After  tempestuous  hours,  than  deep  repose  ! 


310  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 


14.  —  Autumn. 

The  melancholy  Autumn  comes  on  us  : 
Not  red  and  stormy  ;  but  in  a  shroud  of  rain, 
Weeping  for  Summer  fled.     The  fields  lie  bare  : 
The  orchards  stripped  ;  the  gardener's  pride  is  o'er  : 
For  all  sweet-smelling  flowers  have  lost  their  lives  ; 
Greranium  ;  heliotrope  :  Even  the  rose, 
That  was  the  queen  of  all  the  sunny  year, — 
She,  in  whose  perfumed  halls  the  wild  bee  lingered, 
Lightening  his  toil  with  song,  —  is  pale  and  dead  ! 
So  is  't  with  us :  —  Our  spring  is  blown  and  gone  : 
Our  manly  summer,  o'er  whose  moments  Love 
Threw  lustre  like  the  morning,  fades  at  last ! 

15.  —  The  Sorrow  of  an  Heir. 

Duke.  Great  tidings  have  come  hither,  —  from  the 
grave. 
The  Duke  is  dead  :  —  nay,  something  more  than  that : 
My  Father  's  dead  !  —  Well,  —  he  was  very  old. 
The  seasons  were  familiar  with  his  pains  : 
From  vernal  youth  to  wintry  age,  he  saw 
The  melancholy  months  pour  out  their  ills  ; 
And  now,  —  the  year  's  at  end  !     These  things  are  writ 
Down  on  unalterable  brass.     No  tears  ! 
What  use  in  grieving  ?     Will  my  cries  charm  back 
The  pale  down-going  Ghost  which  was  my  Sire, 
And  seat  it  upright  in  his  crimson  chair  ?  — 
He  has  left  us.     Gray  old  man !     He  was  a  bar 


1>RAJIATIC    FRAGMENTS.  311 

'Tween  me  and  power  :  yet,  I  beheld  him  not 
With  an  heir's  loathing.     Master  of  mine  own, 
Within  my  stormy  circle  still  I  reigned, 
And  left  him  to  a  throne. 

.  .  .  Soh,  —  now  for  life  ; 
(Death  being  forgot  awhile).     We  must  assume 
The  sceptre  of  our  sires,  and  take  on  us 
The  golden  burthen  of  a  ducal  crown. 
In  place  of  petty  thoughts  and  weak  desires, 
We  '11  seek  Ambition  in  her  high  retreat, 
And  take  her  for  our  mate.     'T  is  well  that  men. 
Who  march  on  humble  ground,  should  match  with  dust : 
But  We,  —  whose  homes  are  on  the  mountain  tops. 
Whose  thoughts  beyond,  —  must  breathe  fit  air,  and  hold 
Nothing  beneath  the  stars  in  fellowship. 

16.  —  Unborn  Flowers. 

Mow  gentle  is  the  sward  !     Tread  soft !     Perhaps 
A  blue-eyed  creature,  whom  the  Spring  forgot 
To  sweeten,  lies  below.     Perhaps  she  was 
Too  frail  to  unfold  her  bloom  ;  so  died  i'  the  bud. 

17.  —  A  Mother  pleads  to  see  her  Children. 

Judge.  You  are  accused 

M.  Accused  f  say  you,  accused  ? 

Why  so  were  saints  and  martyrs :     Nay  (hear  this) 
Christ  was  accused  !     The  only  Son  of  God, — 
He  was  reviled  and  smitten  :  crowned  with  thorns, 


312  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

Nailed  to  the  cross, —  murdered  !     Do  you  hear  ? 

You  judges  of  a  mean  and  bloody  law  ? 

Who  spell  out,  with  cold  tongues,  accursed  words, 

That  freeze  my  soul.  —  Do  you  say,  —  dare  you  say. 

That  I,  —  a  mother, —  ay,  a  fond  one  (back. 

You  blinding  tears  !) 

Judge.  The  law 

M.  I  want  not  law. 

I  ask  for  justice  :  —  Such  as  Heaven  doth  teach 
Uato  wise  hearts,  and  man  metes  out  to  man : 
Such  as  doth  keep  the  troubled  world  in  quiet. 
I  ask  for  justice :  do  I  ask  too  much  ? 
A  Mother,  —  I  demand  to  see  the  babes 
I  bore  in  pain,  and  fed,  and  for  some  years 
(A  few,  too  few !)  guided  as  they  should  go, 
And  taught  them  truth  and  gentle  thoughts ;  and  now 
I  ask  to  see  them.     God  !     I  ask  't  of  thee ; 
For  man  denies  me.     Ah  !     God  !  —  Father  !    Friend  ! 
(I  have  no  other;)  from  thine  awful  throne 
Hear  my  petition.     Give  my  children  to  me  : 
And  other  fortune,  short  of  this,  1  '11  bear. 
And  thank  your  grace  for  ever. 

18.  —  A  Superstition. 

'T  IS  said,  that  in  some  land,  I  think  in  Spain, 

(Rising  upon  you  like  an  awful  dream,) 

A  wondrous  image  stands.     ' T  is  broad  and  gaunt ; 

Tall  as  a  giant ;'  with  a  stormy  front ; 

And  snaky  hair,  and  large  eyes  all  of  stone ; 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  31:3 

And  armed,  or  so  it  seems,  from  head  to  heel, 

With  a  crook'd  falchion,  and  enormous  casque, 

And  mighty  links  of  mail,  which  once  were  brass ; 

And  spurs  of  marble,  and  marmoreal  limbs  ; 

All  bent,  like  one  who  staggers.     Full  at  the  East 

It  glares,  like  a  defiance,  lowering,  bold ; 

And  scorn  still  lurks  about  its  steadfast  eye  ; 

And  on  its  brow  a  lordly  courage  sits. 

—  This  statue,  as  't  is  told,  was  once  a  king ; 

A  fierce  idolater ;  who  cursed  the  moon. 

And  hated  Heaven,  yet  owned  some  hellish  sway  :  — 

A  strange  religion  this  ;  and  yet  it  was  so. 

Well,  —  he  was  born  a  king,  as  I  have  said. 

And  reigned  o'er  armed  millions,  without  law. 

He  sold  brave  men  for  beggar  gold,  and  stained 

The  innocent  youth  of  virtue.     He  robbed  altars ; 

Ate  like  Apicius ;  drank,  like  Afric  sands, 

Rivers  of  wine  ;  then  fell  to  frenzy.     At  last, 

Swarming  rebellions  (like  the  Atlantic  stirred 

To  madness,  by  the  bellowing  of  great  storms) 

Rose  up,  and,  lashed  to  wrath  by  horrid  wrongs. 

Hunted  the  tyrant  from  his  brazen  throne, — 

Hunted  him,  like  a  wolf,  from  cave  to  cave  ; 

Through  rocks,  and  mountains,  and  deep  perilous  glens ; 

Day  after  day,  night  after  night,  until 

His  soul  burst  out  in  curses.     On  one  dull  dawn, 

Which  showed  him  lurking  to  relentless  foes. 

He  flung  some  terrible  reproach  at  Heaven  ; 

Laughed  at  its  God,  't  is  said,  and  cursed  the  Sun  :  — 

Whereat  the  broad  eye  of  the  Day  unclosed, 

And  stared  him  into  stone  ! 


314  DEAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

19.  —  A  Page  untranslalahle. 

I  GAZE  into  her  eyes  : —  But  who  can  see 
Beyond  the  impenetrable  stars  !     I  hear 
The  music  of  her  steps,  and  of  her  sighs, 
And  of  her  presence,  when  she  is  most  still : 
Yet  something  'scapes  me.     I  could  sooner  read 
The  mysteries  of  the  moon,  when  frenzy  howls. 
Than  her  all-potent  silence. 

20.  —  Twilight. 

I  LOVE  this  light : 

'T  is  the  old  age  of  Day,  methinks  ;  or  haply 

The  infancy  of  Night :  pleasant  it  is. 

Shall  we  be  dreaming  ?  —  Hark  !     The  nightingale, 

Queen  of  all  music,  to  her  listening  heart 

Speaks,  and  the  woods  are  still. 

2\.  — Exiles. 

Man.  A  LITTLE  farther  on. 

And  thou  shall  find  a  safe,  sad  resting-place. 
It  is  a  fallen  palace,  through  whose  gates, 
Arches,  and  flapping  casements,  the  wild  rain 
And  gusty  winds  pour  in.     Long  years  ago. 
It  was  a  mansion  of  a  Count  of  Spain ; 
Who  dealt  with  the  dark  Spirits,  as  't  is  told. 
And  met  a  sudden  doom.     I  have  heard  that  he 
Encountered  his  dusk  master,  as  he  sate 


DRAMATIC    FHAGMENTS.  315 

At  supper  by  himself  one  winter's  night, 
And  died  in  madness. 

Arm.  Is  the  place  so  lonely  ? 

M.  Ay,  is  it.     The  stork  hath  left  it ;  and  no  thing 
Comes  there,  beside  the  snake  ;  save  when,  hard  pressed 
By  savage  hunters,  or  relentless  cold. 
The  wild  fox  makes  't  his  dwelling  through  the  night. 
And  flies  at  morning. 

A.  I  am  ready,  now  : 

Give  me  our  boy,  and  I  will  carry  him. 

M.  Not  so :  I  'm  stouter, —  nay,  I  feel  no  pain. 
He  sleeps.     Look  on  him,  —  little  famished  wretch  ! 
Hunger  disdains  to  tear  him.     Now,  let  's  on  : 
This  way,  beneath  the  pines.     There  is  no  track ; 
But  I  have  sported  there  in  brighter  days. 
And  know  the  thickets. 

A.  Ha!  you  stagger.'  stay: 

Now,  give  me  thy  sweet  burthen. 

M.  Tush  !  't  was  chance  ; 

A  straggling  root  from  yon  old  chestnut-tree. 
We  '11  tread  with  greater  care. 

A.  I  '11  sing  to  thee  ; 

And  cheer  thee  on  our  melancholy  march. 
'T  is  said  men  fight  the  better  when  they  hear 
Sweet  music ;  ay,  endure  fatigue  and  thirst. 
Hunger  and  such  poor  wants.     If  so,  I  '11  strain 
My  throat  until  it  shame  the  nightingale. 
But  I  '11  do  thee  some  service.    Listen  then.    [She  sings. 

M.  Go  on  :  it  cheers  me.     Well } 

A.  I  had  forgot. 


316  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

The  rest  is  sad :  we  Ml  have  't  another  time. 

M.  Now,  now :  —  although  't  be  darker  than  our  lot ; 
Let 's  hear  it.     When  we  cannot  feel  the  sun, 
Or  hear  the  spring  wind  laugh,  or  babbling  river, 
There  's  music  in  the  rain. 

22.  —  Friends  in  Death. 

E.  In  some  lone  cemetery. 

Distant  from  towns,  (some  wild,  wood-girded  spot. 
Ruined  and  full  of  graves,  all  very  old. 
Over  whose  scarce-seen  mounds  the  pine-tree  sheds 
Its  solemn  fruit,  as  giving  dust  to  dust,) 
He  sleeps  in  quiet.     Had  he  no  friend  ?     O,  yes : 
Pity  which  hates  all  noise,  and  Sorrow,  like 
The  enamoring  marble  that  wraps  virgin  mould. 
And  palest  Silence,  who  will  weep  alone. 
And  all  sad  friends  of  Death,  were  friends  to  him ! 

23.  —  A  New  Alceslis. 

Manuel.     [Watching  the   body  of  Armida.]  ...  It 
may  not  be  ! 
I  watch  in  vain.     At  dawn,  at  noon,  at  eve. 
And  ever  through  the  mystic  midnight  hour, 
I  watch  by  her,  who  was  so  late  my  bride ; 
Yet  see  no  change.     Midway,  'tween  life  and  death. 
He  stays  ;  the  tinct  still  red  upon  her  lip  ; 
And  a  hue,  like  that  the  blush-rose  wears,  when  June 
Bares  her  sweet  breast  to  day,  redeems  her  cheek 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  317 

From  everlasting  death  :  and  yet,  —  she  's  dead! 
I  saw,  (too  well!)  amidst  my  useless  tears, 
Her  life  dissolve  away  :  so,  —  though  she  lies 
As  yet  of  no  one  beauty  disarrayed. 
We  '11  give  her  tender  burial.     Open,  earth  ! 

[Music.     The  following  Incantation  is  heard.] 

Change  !  —  The  clay  is  changing : 

The  Spirit  is  through  its  chambers  ranging  ; 

And  the  blood  begins  to  flow  ! 
With  his  subtle  and  fiery  breath, 

He  is  waking  the  streams  below, 
And  is  flushing  the  face  of  Death. 
He  hurries  from  vein  to  vein. 
Hither  and  thither,  and  baclt  again. 
All  over  the  tingling  nerves. 
O'er  muscles  and  bones,  and  never  swenes  ; 
And  now  —  he  is  in  the  brain, 
With  a  sharp  but  a  pleasant  pain  ! 

Awake,  thou  wonder  of  wonders. 

Thou  beautiful,  ghastly  bride  ; 
For  the  ground  is  shaken  by  thunders. 

And  swells  with  a  gloomy  pride  ; 
That  the  soul  which  so  lately  fled 

Should  return  on  the  wings  of  life, 
And  escape  from  the  ghostly  dead  ; 

And  mingle  again  in  the  tearing  strife  ; 
Where  Power  and  Sin,  allied, 

Go  triumphing  still  through  the  regions  wide  ; 


318  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

Where  Hunger  is  left  to  die, 

And  Grief,  with  the  streaming  eye, 

And  Beauty  and  Youth,  and  Fear  and  Pain, 

Fall  down  at  the  Conqueror's  feet,  in  vain. 

[She  revives.] 

Man.  Ha!  — God! 

Arm.  What  seest  thou  ?  — Manuel,  dear  Manuel ! 

Man.  Speak !  earth-like,  tomb-like !  —  Speak !  a  word, 
a  word ; 
Low  as  the  whisper  of  death. 

Arm.  Dear  Manuel  ! 

Man.  The   music  comes  again.     Like  sighing  cy- 
press, — 
Like  organ  dirges,  heard  midst  tears  and  prayer, 
It  floats  about  my  brain  :  —  But  she  is  dead  ! 

Arm.  Have  I  slept  long  ? 

Man.  A  life  !  —  thy  feet  have  trod 

The  bubbling,  burning  waters,  and  come  back 
From  Hell,  like  Orpheus'  lover,  whom  the  gods 
Dashed  into  death  once  more. 

Ar7n.  Thy  reason  's  troubled  : 

Sit  by  me,  and  we  'II  talk. 

Man.  Darest  thou  betray 

The  dumb,  dark  secrets  thou  hast  learned  below  ? 
Beware !  their  gods  may  stir :  daemons  may  rise. 
Armed  with  revenge  and  hate ;  and,  passing  the  bound 
That  doth  divide  us  from  the  worlds  of  fire, 
Seize  on  thee  for  their  own.     Art  thou  not  theii-s  ? 
Their  right }  their  prey  ?  their  subject .''     O,  if  so. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  319 

They  '11  drag  thee  down  to  torment  (o'  that  be  sure) 
Though  I  stand  strong  beside  thee.     Look,  she  smiles. 

Arm.  If  thou  'rt  unhappy,  if  thy  dreams  be  wild, 
Thy  heart  in  anger,  or  thine  honor  hurt. 
Come  unto  me.     Am  I  not  she  who  swore 
To  love  thee  ever  ? 

Man.  Ay  ;  through  life  and  death,  — 

Through  death,  and  through  all  dim  eternity. 
Thou  swor'st  to  follow  me,  —  above,  —  below, — 
Forsaking  all  things.  Heaven  itself,  if  Love 
Might  be  o'er  Time  triumphant. 

Arm.  And  it  is. 

Man.  It  is,  it  is.     O  heart,  be  calm  !  she  lives ! 

Arm.  I  live  :  I  love.  —  I  love  ;  what  more  should  be  .' 

Man.  Nothing :  the  world  's  complete. 

24. — Old  Romance. 

Dost  thou  not  love  the  golden  antique  time. 

When  knights  and  heroes,  for  a  lady's  love. 

Would  spear  the  dragon  ? 

Or  when  Boccaccio's  dames,  now  long  ago. 

Lay  laughing  on  the  grass,  hearing  and  telling 

Wild  love  adventures,  witty,  merry  tales. 

That  made  the  heart  leap  high  ?     And  yet  even  they 

Would  sadden  amidst  their  flowers,  when  that  some 

story 
(Like  a  rose  unfolded)  was  betrayed,  which  shewed 
What  Love  indeed  was  made  of,  —  when  the  world  — 
Chance  —  falsehood  —  danger  tried  its  truth  till  death, 
And  proved  its  hues  unaltered. 


320  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

25.  —  An  Agrarian  Law. 

D.  We  will  divide 
The  treasures  of  the  land  amongst  us  all : 
Nature  made  all  men  equal. 

A.  Soh  !  what  's  here  ? 
Divide  what  we  have  earned  by  our  hard  labor  ? 
Let  all  men  share  alike  ?     The  idle  take 

The  industrious  laborer's  mite  ?     The  drunkard  swill 
The  drink  that  we  have  bought  with  sober  toil  ? 
The  robber  come  into  our  doors,  and  cry, 
"  Half  of  your  loaf  is  mine  "  ?  —  If  we  divide 
Our  neighbor's  goods  to-day,  why  not  divide 
Again  to-morrow .'     Will  our  wealth  become 
Aught  the  more  sacred,  'cause  't  was  plundered  first  .- 
Why  may  not  one,  to-morrow,  come  and  claim 
What  we  have  stol'n  to-day  ?     How  can  we  keep, 
Save  by  our  strength  of  arm,  the  gold  we  get,* 
A  week,  —  a  day,  —  an  hour  ?     How  can  we  tell 
The  very  food  we  earn  shall  be  our  own. 
When  we  have  ta'en  another's  ? 

B.  That  is  true. 
D.  All  will  be  right,  in  future. 

A.  Who  will  work. 

If  what  he  earns  be  never  safe }  who  'II  sow. 
That  they  who  trade  in  plunder  still  may  reap 
The  corn  he  ought  to  gather  ?     One  great  end 
Of  all  Laws  is  Security  :  —  That  lost, 
A  country  doth  become  a  robber's  den. 
Bloody  and  base,  where  nought  but  bad  men  thrive. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  321 

26.  —  Aggrandizement  by  the  Passions. 

Tut,  tut !  all  's  vanity.     Not  I  alone  ; 
Ambition,  Courage,  Hate,  Revenge,  Despair, 
AH  seem  to  exceed  the  measure  of  themselves, 
When  each  is  lofty.     Hast  e'er  heard  the  wind 
Run  blustering  through  the  forests,  and  make  tremble 
The  aspen  and  the  birch  ?     Why,  who  would  dream 
That 't  was  the  selfsame  air  which  fanned  the  flowers 
So  delicately  i'  the  spring .'     Hast  seen  the  sea 
Come  swaggering  on  the  land,  till  the  land  shook, 
And  all  the  shores  and  echoing  caverns  lost 
Their  dumbness  in  affright  ^     Look  well  upon  't : 
'T  is  the  same  murmuring  creature  scarce  surmounts 
The  pebbles  on  our  beach  ;  only,  being  wrought 
To  madness  by  some  wrong,  or  the  moon's  scorn, 
'T  jumps  from  its  calm,  and  scales  the  sky,  to  show 
^^'hat  strength  't  may  have  when  angered.     So  it  is 
With  the  Passions,  which  are  all  irregular. 
Bound  by  no  limit,  tending  to  no  end. 
Unless  to  show  how  high  the  Spirit  of  man 
May  soar  beyond  its  puny  dwelling-place. 

27.  —  Advice  on  Marriage. 

Never,  boy,  wed  a  wit.     Man  does  not  marry 
To  poise  his  reason  'gainst  a  quarrelling  tongue  ; 
But  for  sweet  idleness.     Chose  I  a  wife, 
I  'd  have  her,  —  perhaps  fair,  —  certainly  gentle  ; 
True,  if  't  were  possible  ;  and  tender  —  oh  ! 

21 


3'22  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

As  daylight  when  it  melts  in  evening  seas, 
The  waves  all  dark  with  slumber. 


28.  —  Death  in  Youth. 

My  brother  's  dead  !     He  was  a  man  to  seize 
The  eagle  Greatness  in  its  flight,  and  wear 
Its  feather  in  his  casque.     He  's  dead  :  —  he  died 
Young ;  as  the  great  will  die  ;  as  Summer  dies, 
By  drought  and  its  own  fevers  burned  to  death. 

29.  —  Hopefulness  of  Love. 

Look,  where  she  stands !     Hath  the  magician  Love 
Touched  her  to  stone  ?      No,  no :  she  breathes,  she 

moves : 
Beauty  sits  bravely  in  her  glittering  eye  ; 
And  passion  stains  her  cheek.    What  thoughts  are  these. 
Unfolding  like  rose-flowers  at  dawn  of  day  .?  — 
Methinks  she  sees  the  sunny  Future  lie 
Basking  before  her. 

30.  —  Good  in  every  Heart. 

Nature  never  made 
A  heart  all  marble  ;  but,  in  'ts  fissures,  sows 
The  wild  flower  Love ;  from  whose  rich  seeds  spring 

forth 
A  world  of  mercies  and  sweet  charities. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  323 

31.  —  A  Lover''s  Memory. 

They  call  her  beautiful :  It  may  be  so : 
All  that  I  know  is,  when  she  leaves  me,  Dreams 
Rise  up,  and  Visions,  of  some  glory  passed, 
Encompass  me  ;  and  I  remember  soon. 
How  planet-struck  I  was  when  she  was  by ; 
Although  I  then  saw  nothing. 

32.  —  Polyphemus. 

J.  This  "  Triumph  "  *  by  our  friend  is  wanton  soft : 
But  there  's  high  matter  in  the  sea-nymph's  story. 
Which  might  become  a  painter's  pencil  well. 
He  should  have  drawn  the  Cyclop, —  as  he  sate 
Uplifted  like  a  crag,  and  piped  his  songs 
Of  Galatea  to  the  watery  shores. 
Some  say  that,  Orpheus-like,  he  charmed  dull  stones. 
Made  Ocean  murmur,  and  the  airy  winds 
Took  captive  ;  and  't  is  known,  he  sighed  and  sang 
The  deathful  ditties  which  belong  to  love  ; 
And  called  on  Galatea  :  —  She,  the  while. 
Lay  mute,  and  closed  (if  e'er  she  heard  his  strains) 
Her  soul  against  his  passion.     Day  by  day 
He  sang;  and,  like  the  mateless  lark,  called  forth 
The  dawn  ;  and  underneath  the  burning  noon 
Held  fiery  celebration  ;  and  at  eve. 
Fatigued  by  sorrow  and  wild  song,  he  wept. 

•  The  Triumph  of  Galatea,  by  Raffaelle. 


324  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

33.  —  Parents''  Love :   Value  of  Reproof. 

The  love  of  parents  hath  a  deep,  still  source ; 
And  falleth  like  a  flood  upon  their  child. 
Sometimes  the  child  is  grateful :  then  his  love 
Comes  like  the  spray  returning.  —  In  this  case, 
A  father,  full  of  truth,  has  checked  his  son ; 
Harshly,  perhaps  ;  for  many  a  benefit 
Puts  on  the  visor  of  a  stern  reproof; 
But,  O,  within,  (as  roughest  rinds  conceal 
The  tenderest  kernels,)  gentle  thoughts  abide  ; 
Sweet  meanings ;  seeds  that,  if  the  soil  be  sure, 
Will  br'uig  forth  fruits  of  wisdom. 

34.  —  Goodness  comes  without  Parade. 

A.  The  Music,  then, 

A  rainbow  of  sweet  sounds,  did  steal  upon  me. 
Arching  my  cloudy  thoughts  with  brighter  hopes. 

B.  Is  it  not  ever  thus  ?     The  gifts  of  Gods 
Come  not  in  thunder,  but  all  silent :  —  Thus 
Comes  forth  the  Flower,  and  thus  the  summer  Dawn 
With  noiseless  steps  moves  up  the  eastern  sky. 
And  brings  us  light  and  comfort.     Thanks  for  all ! 

35.  —  Evening  Music. 

Ja.  I  THOUGHT  I  heard  my  husband's  footstep  }     No. 

Girl.  'T  was  but  a  deer  crossing  the  path. 

Ja.  You  're  right ; 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  325 

My  wish  outran  my  judgment.     Come,  —  a  song  : 
My  heart  is  painful,  and  I  cannot  sleep. 
A  song !     Let  it  be  soft,  yet  nowise  sad  ; 
Some  air  that  floats  upon  the  edge  of  silence, 
But  enters  not  its  bound.     The  world  's  at  rest ! 
Why  cannot  I  (poor  watcher)  lose  my  pains 
In  sweet  oblivion,  like  the  happy  world .? 

Girl.  What  shall  I  sing,  madam  ? 

Ja.  Whate'er  you  will ; 

Some  verse  you  love,  girl.  —  Well,  if  I  must  choose, 
Let  it  be  some  such  old,  sweet  household  song 
As  a  mother,  rocking  her  sick  child  to  rest. 
Sings  through  the  night.     Or,  —  if  you  will,  —  recount 
How  all  wild  thoughts  and  cares  of  feverish  life 
Find  refuge  at  last  in  sleep.     See  !  day  is  past, 
And  night  already  here. 

{Music.) 

Girl  (sings).  Day  is  over ;  Night  is  here  : 
Closed  are  the  eye  and  ear 
In  sleep,  in  sleep  ! 
Pain  is  silent ;  Toil  reposes  : 
Love  is  hid  amongst  his  roses : 
Let  the  murmuring  music  creep 
Into  silence,  and  remain 
Till  the  morning  smiles  again  ! 
Neither  moan,  nor  weep  : 
Dreams,  and  all  the  race  of  Fear, 
Fade  away,  and  disappear 
In  the  deepest  deep  ! 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

Ja.  Thanks,  little  one  :  You  have  a  voice  might  grieve 
The  nightingale,  could  she  but  hear  you  sing. 
Or,  —  was  't  the  theme  ?     Soft,  gentlest,  friendly  Sleep  ! 
Sweet  holiday  !     Of  all  earth's  good  the  help,  — 
Or  origin  :  thyself  a  midnight  Hymn, 
Which  weary  Nature,  when  her  work  is  done. 
Breathes  to  the  God  of  all ! 


36.  —  Fancy  thrives  in  Darkness. 

In  happy  daylight,  child,  our  fancy  's  dull ; 
Quelled,  dazzled  by  the  sunshine.     In  the  storm. 
And  in  the  night,  and  on  the  turbulent  sea,  — 
When  thunder  and  the  winds  wage  war  together. 
And,  underneath,  the  vast  black  heaving  Deep 
Bears  up  the  sailor  to  the  clouds,  he  sees. 
Far  off,  the  beauty  of  his  flowery  home, 
Where,  fenced  by  humble  walls,  his  children  sleep  ; 
Their  mother  watching  o'er. 

37.  —  Children. 

Sigh  not  for  Children.     Thou  wilt  love  them  much  ; 
And  Care  will  follow  Love,  and  then  Despair. 
First,  one«will  sicken ;  then,  another  leave  thee 
For  the  base  world  ;  and  he  thou  lov'st  the  most,  — 
The  light  o'  thy  life,  girl,  will  go  out  at  last, 
Like  fading  starlight ;  leaving  thee,  alone. 
To  sordid  thoughts  and  childless  misery. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  327 

39.  — Pride  of  Birth. 

I  WAS  horn  high.     I  did  not  spring  from  mire, 
Like  the  foul  fungus :  but,  from  airy  heights. 
Descended  with  my  branches,  and  let  men 
Gather  my  golden  fruits  to  comfort  them. 

39.  —  A  Discovery.     Confidential  Talk. 

A .  You  said  you  wished  to  trust  some  secret  to  me  ? 

Y.  Sit  down,  and  let  us  talk.     Is  the  door  fast  ? 

A.  'T  is  ne'er  left  open.     I  don't  sleep  o'  nights 
With  my  throat  bare  for  every  knife  that  comes. 
No  :  I  know  better. 

Y.  Ay  ;  you  know  there  are  some 

Will  knock  a  man  o'  the  head  for  half  a  dollar ; 
And  dream  that  night  the  merrier } 

A.  No,  not  so  : 

Not  for  so  little. 

Y.  You  interpret  me 

Too  literally.     I  meant  for  some  small  sum  : 
A  slight  annuity,  now  ? 

A.  Ha  !  —  well  ?  what  then  ? 

Y.  Why,  nothing,  —  nothing.     We   've    forgot   the 
secret. 

A.  I  heard  a  noise. 

Y.  'T  was  but  the  wind.  —  Now,  listen. 

—  Some  years  ago,  before  I  went  abroad  — 
'T  was  on  a  winter's  night :  —  The  storm  that  had  vexed 
The  evening,  now  was  hushed  :  The  ground,  late  crisp 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

With  frost,  grew  soft ;  and  footsteps  made  no  noise. 
'T  was  dark,  pitch  dark ;  and  not  a  sound  was  heard  ; 
Save  when  some  murderer,  struggling  with  his  dreams, 
Babbled  of  blood,  or  some  child-robber  groaned  — 

A.  S'  Death,  what  's  all  this  ?     Go  to  your  tale  at 
once. 

Y.  Patience  !     On  such  a  night  1  lay  awake, 
Amidst  the  silence  :  Midnight  might  be  past ; 
When  you  and  your  late  wife 

A.  Your  mother :  well  } 

Y.  Crept  nearer  to  the  ashes,  then  nigh  dead  ; 
And,  after  words  more  stormy  than  the  wind. 
Fell  talking  of  old  times.     You  —  (look  at  me  !) 
You  spoke  together,  loosely,  of  some  deed, 
Done  years  before ;  of  some  rich  man's  desire 
To  jump  into  his  elder  brother's  seat. 
And  lose  some  —  reptile  brat  that  troubled  him. 
And   then   you  whispered,   (whilst   your  wife  peered 

round, 
Shaking  like  Horror,)  "  Safe,  'gainst  all  the  world  "  ! 
You  swore  (I  hear  your  hoarse  words  now)  you  had 

trod 
The  earth  on  "  the  body,"  and  made  all  things  sure. 
Then  followed  a  strange  fact  (I  had  wellnigh  laughed 
Right  through  the  crevice,  where  I  watched,  unknown) ; 
'T  was  of  a  child,  stolen  from  his  home ;  brought  up 
In  workhouse  poverty  ;  and  taken,  at  last. 
Into  your  house.     Ha,  ha !  —  I  hurried  back 
Into  my  bed,  and  there  laughed  out  my  fill : 
The  tale  was  so  like  my  own. 


DRAMATIC   FRAGMENTS.  329 

A.  Stay  here,  a  moment. 

Y.  No,  by  my  soul ;  not  I.     You  shall  not  pass. 
Look  !  I  have  pistols  in  my  belt.     You  know 
I  am  not  a  man  to  trifle. 

A.  Would  you  kill 

Your  father  ? 

Y.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !     Am  I  a  fool  ? 

Did  you  not  say  "  the  "child  "  wore  on  its  throat 
A  mark  ?     Look  ?  —  What  am  I  ?     I  am  the  child  : 
And  I  will  know  my  parentage. 

A.  Be  calm. 

Y.  Dost  think  —  had  I  not  done  a  foolish  thing, 
That  I  'd  have  slept  so  long  upon  this  tale  ? 
Not  I,  by  Hell.     I  was  compelled  to  starve 
Ten  years  abroad,  to  cheat  our  cursed  laws  : 
But  time  has  run  ;  and  they  who  might  have  thrust  me, 
A  culprit,  out  to  the  burning  colonies, 
Can  do  't  no  more.     Their  power  is  dead  :  Dost  mark  } 
And  now  I  come  upon  you,  and  will  ungrave 
The  bloody  secret.     I  tcill  know  the  worst. 
If  you  speak  fairly,  all  may  still  go  well : 
If  not,  1  '11  straight  before  some  magistrate, 
And  make  my  oath  against  you. 

A.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

You  have  been  dreaming. 

Y.  We  will  search  —  a  field  ! 

And  we  will  know  whose  purse  now  feeds  your  wants. 
You  were  not  born  to  live  on  others'  toil  : 
But,  bred  a  servant,  —  what  has  raised  you  thus  .'' 
Look  on  me  ?     Who  am  I?     Do  I  not  know 


390  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

That  creatures,  whom  some  wrong  (as  damnable 
As  mine)  hath  crushed  in  youth,  though  hid  in  rags, 
Have  felt  their  spirits  mount  up  to  the  clouds. 
And  forced  their  way  to  fortune  :  —  So  will  I. 
Confess  ;  or  I  am  gone. 

A.  Give  me  a  day. 

Y.  I  will  not  give  an  hour.     This  minute  's  thine. 
To  yield,  or  dare  :  —  the  next  belongs  to  Fate. 

40.  —  Constancy  in  Crime. 

Sir  Ph.  Fellow,  look  on  me.     Dost  thou  think  I 
laid 
A  spot  upon  my  soul,  risked  fame,  and  hired 
A  well-paid  ruffian  to  achieve  this  deed. 
But  to  draw  back  .''     Know  better.     It  is  done  : 
And  shall  not  be  repented.     Shouldst  thou  dare 
To  babble  but  a  word  of  what  is  past. 
Count  on  your  death.     'T  will  be  a  patriot  deed. 
To  hire  a  villain's  knife  to  kill  a  villain  : 
There  'II  be  a  rogue  the  less.     Think  well  upon  it. 

Bra.  You  will  not  be  so  bloody  } 

Sir  Ph.  Think  upon  it. 

I  'm  here,  high  seated,  firmly  seated,  too. 
But  if  a  foot  be  stirred,  why,  I  shall  think 
A  robber  comes  ;  — 

Bra.  And  then  ? 

Sir  Ph.  Then  he  '11  be  —  shot ; 

And  no  time  lost  i'  the  doing.     Think  upon  it. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  331 

41.  —  Popular  Commotions. 

About  this  time  the  Trumpet  talked  of  war. 
On  which,  I  set  my  books  in  decent  order ; 
Took  leave  of  friends ;  bequeathed  a  gift  or  two ; 
And,  though  till  then  I  had  battled  but  with  words, 
I  buckled  on  my  sword  like  other  men, 
And  plunged  in  action.     'T  was  called  "  civil "  war. 
The  people  were  abroad,  —  like  a  mighty  fleet 
Wrenched  from  its  moorings,  by  some  sudden  storm ; 
Tossed  to  and  fro,  —  past  counsel,  —  blind  and  deaf 
To  all  things,  save  the  roaring  hurricane. 

42.  —  Battles. 

Then  all  bad  Passions  mingled  in  the  strife  : 
Hate,  with  closed  lips  and  cold,  unaltered  eye. 
Defied  his  enemy  :  Black  Revenge  rushed  forth  : 
And  Envy  with  his  hidden  knife  came  on. 
Stealing  behind  his  prey.     This  way  and  that, 
(Scared  by  the  trumpet  or  the  sullen  drum,) 
Fled  Beauty,  mocked  by  Vice  ;  and  helpless  Age  ; 
And  timorous  Youth  .  whilst  Murder,  with  hot  eyes, 
Spent  bredth,  and  staggering   through   the  slippery 

streets, 
Paused  for  a  while,  and  with  red  dripping  fingers 
Wiped  from  his  sweating  brow  his  cloud  of  hair, 
And  reckoned  his  harvest  'round. 


DRAMATIC    FKAGMENTS. 

43.  —  Animal  Love. 

Rod.  What  kind  of  witch  was  this  ? 

Mor.  Um — ph !    You  may  see 

Her  like  in  some  old  picture.     Look  !  —  1'  the  distance 
Are  skies  of  deepest  blue  :  Near,  overhead, 
Hang  clouds  of  cool,  green  leaves,  and  tendrils  heavy 
With  bloomy  grapes :  Beneath,  Nymphs  or  Bacchantes, 
With  pulpy  lips,  and  glances  full  of  heat. 
Sporting  about,  (careless  of  Fauns  hard  by,) 
Their  rich,  brown,  burnished  skins,  kissed  by  the  Sun, 
And  naked  in  the  merry  vintage-time. 
Well,  —  such  was  she  :  and  I  —  I  loved  her,  'faith. 
As  I  should,  then,  have  loved  some  luscious  peach, — 

Rod.  How.? 

Mor.  I  must  needs  confess  it,  uncle  Roderick  : 

Her  large,  luxurious  bosom  and  bold  eyes 
Shot  fire  upon  my  flesh  and  maddened  me. 
Reproach  me  not :  I  was  a  foolish  boy, 
(A  fool,)  and  cast  body  and  soul  away 
In  those  love-squandering  days.     Noic,  —  I  am  man  ; 
And  have  man's  reason,  man's  maturer  taste. 
Instead  of  languid  rooms  and  rose-fed  air, 
I  front  the  roaring  Boreas  where  he  blows  : 
In  place  of  dances,  I  look  out  for  wars ; 
Converse  on  battles ;  mark  how  squadrons  wheel ; 
And  hope  to  live  out  life  in  nobleness. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  333 

44.  —  Wisdom^  a  Problem. 

I  CAME  into  the  world  as  others  do ; 

Life  quickening  in  my  limbs,  the  burning  blood 

Racing  through  every  vein  and  artery  ; 

Free,  vigorous,  healthy ;  turned  to  passionate  themes, 

And  born  for  pleasure.     I  grew  up  —  a  man, 

My  spirit  ripening  as  my  limbs  waxed  strong ; 

I  read,  marked,  hoarded  ;  heaped  up  word  on  word, 

And  thought  on  thought ;  and,  when  severer  years 

Banished  bright  Hope  and  quelled  my  April  laugh, 

And  hung  the  Future  round  with  clouds  of  care. 

Men  dreamed  that  I  was  wise.     Alas  !     I  lost 

The  fruit  of  wisdom, — joy.     I  smiled,  indeed. 

As,  day  by  day,  I  reckoned  up  my  gains, 

And  learned  how  I  had  toiled,  as  sage  men  do. 

Accumulating  riches  for  no  end  :  — 

But  still  I  was  called  wise,  and  that  sufficed. 

Now,  look  upon  me  !     Didst  thou  ever  see 

Old  Age,  girl  ?     Look  upon  him,  —  face  to  face  ! 

Observe,  how  white  and  withered  is  his  skin  : 

How  his  lean  limbs  go  tottering  :  how  his  tongue 

Stammers  forth  sadness  !     From  his  eyes  the  light 

Of  love  and  intellect  is  quenched  and  gone  : 

And  every  thing  about  him,  body  and  mind, 

Tells  a  foul  tale  of  Time. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

45.  —  Comfort  in  Nature. 

Art  sick  ?  —  art  sad  }  —  art  angry  with  the  world  } 
Do  all  friends  fail  thee  ?     Why,  then,  give  thyself 
Unto  the  forests  and  the  ambrosial  fields  : 
Commerce  with  them,  and  with  the  eternal  sky. 
Despair  not,  fellow.     He  who  casts  himself 
On  Nature's  fair,  full  bosom,  and  draws  food, 
Drinks  from  a  fountain  that  is  never  dry. 
The  Poet  haunts  there  :  Youth  that  ne'er  grows  old 
Dwells  with  her  and  her  flowers  ;  and  Beauty  sleeps 
In  her  most  green  recesses,  to  be  found 
By  all  who  seek  her  truly. 

46.  —  Mute  Confession. 

Dost  thou  deny  it  ?     I  have  seen  thee  look 

Into  the  sunny  region  of  his  hair  ; 

And  gaze  upon  his  brow.     O,  shut  thy  lips  ! 

I  want  no  words  :  thou  dost  confess  it  now. 

There, —  on  thy  painted  cheeks  and  glittering  eyes, 

The  story  's  writ :  —  Be  silent ;  all  is  well. 

Al.  —  ALily. 

A.  She  is  not  fresh  in  color,  like  the  rose  ; 
Nor  bright  like  morning.     On  her  cheek  there  lies 
Such  paleness  as  becomes  the  maiden  moon, 
When  clouds  are  threatening,  and  the  angry  storm 
Mutters  of  death  to  come. 


DEAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  335 

B.  She  is  not  dead  ? 

A.  Death  could  not  kill  her:  he  but  kissed  her  cheek, 
And  made  't  a  little  paler.     So,  she  lives. 
And  fades,  —  and  fades  ;  and  in  the  end,  (as  day 
Dies  into  evening,)  she  '11  some  summer  night 
Shrink  and  be  seen  no  more. 


48.  —  Uninspired  Music. 

These  should  be  inspiration  still  in  Art ; 

Raising  the  artist's  toil,  and  sweetening  it. 

These  ponderous  labors  yield  me  no  delight. 

I  am  not  learned  in  Music ;  yet  I  know 

That  the  Art  whose  skill  must  mean  to  move  the  soul, 

And  echo  Nature,  should  be  true  to  it. 

Now  Nature's  voice  is  not  like  this  vast  strain, 

Monotonously  grand  :     Some  sounds  there  are 

In  dignity  below  the  thunder;  some 

Tender  as  Love  ;  some  gay  as  bridal  thoughts  ; 

Some  stern  as  justice  ;  others,  more  serene. 

Which  (mute  by  day)  awake  when  Evening  wakes, 

And  soothe  the  setting  sun  with  harmony. 

49.  —  Fellowship. 

A.  Now,  fellow  } 

B.  Fellow  me  not. 

A.  How  now,  good  friend 

Are  we  not  fellows  }     Do  not  morn  and  eve 
Bring  the  same  hunger  to  our  scanty  boards .'' 


336  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

Come  not  warm  Summer,  bleak  December's  cold, 
Darkness  and  dreaming  sleep,  to  both,  —  alike? 
In  what  strange  transit  of  the  laboring  moon 
Wast  thou  sent  forth,  that  thou  shouldst  soar  beyond 
The  regular  flight  of  men  ?  —  Give  me  thy  hand. 

50.  —  The  Rise  of  a  Favorite. 

Ten  years  ago  I  knew  this  favorite  ; 
And  we  were  friends  :  such  friends  as  young  men  are, 
Who  're  bound  together  by  some  wild  pursuit. 
But  we  fell  off  at  last,  when  I  grew  grave, 
And  turned  to  study  :  he,  being  then,  indeed, 
Ambitious,  but  not  winged  with  soaring  thoughts. 
Clung  to  some  genius  rising.     He  became 
A  Courtier  ;  laid  in  wait  for  princes'  smiles ; 
Talked  soft  to  noble  dames  ;  flattered  rich  men ; 
And  so,  by  dint  of  such  poor  palace  tricks, 
Surmounted  his  low  birthright,  and  at  last 
Sprang  on  the  back  of  Fortune. 

...  I,  too,  rose  ; 
And  fell,  alas  !     Yet,  wherefore  should  I  grieve  ? 
What  difference  is  there  'twixt  the  now  and  then  ? 
The  sun  shines  on  me  as  't  was  wont  to  do  ; 
My  strength  the  same,  my  appetite ;  my  body 
Throws  down  as  large  a  shadow.    Is  my  voice  shriller  ? 
My  eye  less  quick  ?  or  any  natural  power 
More  dull  than  when  I  stood  second  to  none, 
Except  an  ungrateful  master .' 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  337 

51.  —  Fale  of  the  Daring. 

Fame  and  an  early  death  :  that  is  the  doom 

Of  all  who  greatly  dare.     I  do  not  speak 

Of  mea  who  have  with  cautious  footsteps  trod 

The  way  to  the  heights  of  power  ;  but  such  as  plunged 

At  once  into  renown,  and  gave  their  blood 

For  reverence  from  unborn  posterity. 

52.  —  A  Father''s  Anger. 

Hear  me,  —  Gods ! 
You,  who  give  fathers'  curses,  give  me  now 
A  curse  that  has  no  mercy,  —  stunning,  vast, 
And  deeper  than  despair !     Now  let  me  crush 
The  heart  out  of  a  base,  ungrateful  child ! 

0  God,  O  God  !     I  was  so  fond  of  her ! 
She  was  my  only  one.     The  world  was  else 

A  blank,  —  a  Hell !  dark,  barren,  hopeless,  pitiless ! 
And  now —  she  's  gone  ! 

Come  hither.     You  are  bereft 
(You   say)   of  fortune — health  —  life's  light  —  men's 

praise, 
And  swear  you  have  endured  some  mighty  loss  } 

1  laugh  at  you.     Turn  here,  and  look  on  me. 
I  had  —  a  world ;  and  I  have  lost  it  all ! 
All,  —  not  an  atom  left,  —  or  shred  of  joy, 
No  hope,  no  resignation, —  only  death  ! 

22 


338  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 


53.  —  Good  never  ceases. 

A.  I  CANNOT  bring  him  back  ;  —  for  he  is  dead. 
1  cannot  re-illuminate  his  clay  : 

The  Spirit,  which  once  shone  through  it  like  flame, 
And  soared  up  to  the  brain  and  said,  Be  wise. 
Is  flown  beyond  the  stars !     With  him  departed 
The  beauty  of  the  world,  —  truth,  —  genius,  —  all 
That  lent  this  orb  its  lustre. 

B.  You  are  young  ; 

And  years  will  bring  you  calm.     Meantime,  take  com- 
fort. 
Think  not  that  all  of  good  has  passed  away : 
There  is  no  hour  but  hath  its  noble  deed  : 
Each  minute  is  rich  in  worth,  —  heroic  thoughts, 
High,  gentle,  generous  acts :  — All  that  Time  lacks 
Is  —  an  historian  ! 


54.  —  The  Limit  of  a  Hero. 

Nothing  may  now  be  done.     Our  fellows,  here, 
Slumber  in  ignorant  night.     One  man,  albeit 
He  should  rise  star-like  and  so  set,  can  shew 
Only  the  course  of  his  own  luminous  orb. 
Some  impulse  he  may  lend,  indeed  ;  yet  he 
Is  master  but  of  his  sole  destiny. 
To  bear  a  people  sunwards,  there  must  be 
Time  and  just  laws,  commerce  and  useful  arts 
(Civilization  being  expressed  in  these) ; 
For  from  such  sources  gentle  manners  flow  ; 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  339 

And  leisure,  wherein  Thought  doth  dwell  and  thrive, 
A  Spirit  of  many  names,  — as  Science,  Art, 
And  Meditation,  which  doth  lead  to  truth. 


55  — A  Prophet. 

Man.  The  melancholy  prophet,  —  there  he  sits  ; 
Dark-eyed,  deep-browed,  deep-thoughted  ;  tranquil,  too. 
As  though  his  terrible  oracles  did  not  sound 
Damnation  to  the  land,  and  overturn. 
I  hear  his  voice  ; 

Like  Darkness  murmuring  forth  her  eastern  song,  — 
Ruin  to  wealth,  and  punishment  to  pride, 
Its  awful  burthen.     Twenty  years  ago 
I  knew  this  man.     I  did  not  think  he  held 
So  large  a  mind,  nor  such  grave,  earnest  soul. 
(I  do  repent  in  ashes.)     He  was  then 
Simply  a  scholar ;  and  (as  I  fancy)  felt 
The  place  he  trod  on  was  too  low  for  him  ; 
Or  else,  he  scorned  the  sordid  crowds  he  met ; 
Or  had  ambition  ;  or  desired  to  breathe 
His  Soul  upon  the  world,  and  brighten  it. 
Whate'er  he  was,  he  is  a  man  to  lead 
The  true  and  nobler  Spirits  in  his  train ; 
Amongst  the  rest  —  myself ;  a  humble  man 
Who,  as  yet,  have  but  the  wish  to  serve  for  truth. 


310  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

56.  —  A  Sceptic  in  Happiness. 

A.  Look  on  her.     Is  she  not  most  beautiful  > 
Most  happy,  too  ?   for  rank,  and  youth,  and  heahh, 
Are  hers  ;  and  suppliant  Fortune  waits  to  ask 
Where  lies  her  choice.     Can  you  foresee  what  Earth 
Has  more  to  yield  ? 

B.  Methinks  a  "  more  "  might  be. 

A.  I  know  not  what.     Look,  how  the  sunny  smiles. 
Like  golden  meshes,  wind  about  her  brow  ! 

How  airily,  yet  with  what  state,  she  walks  ! 
Your  eyes  are  dim  to-day. 

B.  I  see,  I  see. 

The  rose  grows  on  her  cheek  :  —  is  there  no  thorn  } 

57.  —  False  Worship. 

Y.  With  what  respect 

Yon  burgher  bows  to  you. 

A.  He  is  a  fool : 

He  ducks  unto  my  purse,  which  will  not  open  ; 
Passing  you  by,  whom  radiant  youth  and  love. 
And  hope  and  health,  (the  kingly  wine  of  life,) 
And  earnest  thoughts  of  noble  deeds  to  come. 
Sustain  and  strengthen.     Yet,  be  not  too  proud  : 
For  dreams  are  fading.     As  you  sit  beside 
The  stream  that  flows  into  oblivion. 
Gathering  the  golden  pebbles  from  its  banks, 
Summer  will  pass,  and  Autumn,  moaning  low, 
(And  you  will  hear  them  not ;)  and  suddenly 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  341 

Down  like  a  curse  December's  frost  will  fall, 

And  strip  your  strength  away,  and  shrivel  you  up. 

Until  you  grow  the  weakly  thing  that  I  am. 

I  cheat  men  of  respect.     What  have  I  ?  —  Gold  ! 

The  God  of  pauper  spirits  :  nought  beside. 

Give  me  your  pity  :  but  respect  yourself; 

And  strive  to  earn  what  ought  to  force  respect. 

58.  —  The  Test  of  Love. 

Loves  she  ?     She  loves  not :  she  hath  never  loved. 
Her  walk  is  easy  ;  her  discourse  is  neat : 
She  sigheth  not ;  her  smile  has  mirth  in  it : 
Her  gaze  is  firm,  untroubled,  cloudless,  cold  : 
No  fear  makes  pale  her  cheek  :  No  hopeless  pain 
Lies  there  ;  nor  hope,  half-hidden  :  No  sweet  trouble 
Stains  it  with  beauty  like  the  rose's  leaf:  — 
But  all  is  free  as  air,  as  fresh  as  youth. 
As  clear  from  care  as  untouched  innocence. 

59.  —  A  Truism. 

See,  —  Morning,  in  the  East,  unbinds  her  hair. 

Loosening  its  lustre  on  the  dewy  ground. 

And  springs  upon  her  blue  aerial  way ! 

Thus  we  spring  lightly  onward  ;  but,  when  Night 

Flows  in  upon  the  ocean  of  the  sky, — 

Or  when,  in  sullen  mood,  Orion  turns 

His  starry  shoulder  from  the  lowering  world, 

We  seem  to  obey  the  Spirit  of  the  Time, 


342  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

Forsaking  our  own  God-given  strength,  and  bend 
The  slaves  o'  the  season. 


60.  —  Silence. 

You  err  :  I  am  resigned.     I  yield  due  praise 

Unto  your  bellowing  orator.     And  yet  — 

How  grand  is  Silence  !     In  her  tranquil  deeps 

What  mighty   things   are   born !  —  Thought,    Beauty, 

Faith, 
All  Good  ;  —  bright  Thought,  which  springeth  forth,  at 

once, 
Like  sudden  sunrise  ;  Faith,  the  angel-eyed. 
Who  takes  her  rest  beside  the  heart  of  man. 
Serene  and  still ;  eternal  Beauty,  crowned 
With  flowers,  that  with  the  changing  seasons  change  ; 
And  Good  of  all  kinds.     Whilst  the  babbling  verse 
Of  the  vain  poet  frets  its  restless  way. 
In  stately  strength  the  Sage's  mind  flows  on. 
Making  no  noise  :  —  and  so,  when  clamorous  crowds 
Rush    forth,  —  or    tedious    wits    'waken    the    senate- 
house,  — 
Or  some  fierce  actor  stamps  upon  his  stage,  — 
With  what  a  gentle  foot  doth  silent  Time 
Steal  on  his  everlasting  journey  ! 

61.  —  A  Conqueror^ s  Account  of  Himself. 

Nap.  The  good  of  France  and  mine  are  mixed.   I  am 
The  leaf  of  laurel  on  her  tree,  —  no  more  : 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  343 

One  of  her  sons.     I  stand,  indeed,  the  First, 

Because  necessity  will  have  a  man 

To  front  the  aspect  of  alanning  times. 

Still  am  I  one  o'  the  people.     I  claim  not 

A  line  stretched  backwards  beyond  Nimrod's  reign  ; 

Nor  call  on  Caesar,  or  Semiramis, 

To  answer  for  a  weak  or  daring  son. 

I  am  —  myself;  the  first,  —  perhaps  the  last 

Of  all  my  race  who  won  or  wore  a  crown. 

Yet  have  I  ambition  still ;  for  I  would  feel 

My  soldiers'  tears  raining  upon  my  grave  ; 

And  have,  on  lasting  brass,  my  nobler  deeds 

Thus  written  :  —  "  Here  lies  Napoleon,  Emperor ; 

Who  rose  by  courage,  and  the  peopJe''s  vnU, 

Up  to  a  throne  :  —  He  won  a  hundred  battles,  — 

At  Areola,  at  Rivoli,  at  Marengo, 

At  Austerlitz,  at  Jena,  and  by  the  snows 

Of  Moscow,  and  the  Libyan  pyramids  : 

He  cut  (like  Hannibal)  the  white  Alps  through: 

Learning  he  raised  ;  built  public  roads  and  fountains  ; 

And  made  one  eqiml  Law  for  all  the  land.'''* 

62.  —  Parish  Law-givers. 

Jul.  I  MUST  dissent  from  this.     Nothing  so  bad 
As  these  close,  paltry,  parish  governments  ; 
Wherein  some  butcher  Caesar  rules  the  realm,  — 
Or  publican,  with  quart  in  hand,  gives  law, — 
Or  tailor,  talking  by  the  yard,  deludes 
His  stitching  and  beer-vanquished  auditors. 


344  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

Look  on  their  deeds  !     They  do  abhor  the  rich  ; 
And  scorn  the  poor :  between  which  two,  they  ride 
Triumphant  in  their  puny  ohgarchy. 
If  we  must  bend  to  tyranny,  let  it  be  grand  ! 
I  spit  upon  a  slave  who  serves  a  slave. 
Besides,  —  in  these  times,  no  One  man  can  keep 
The  despot's  summit ;  save  in  barbarous  realms. 
Our  danger  is  "  confederacy  " :  Bands  of  rich. 
Or  bands  of  poor,  who  join  their  wits  for  ill, 
And  tyrannize  above  the  good  and  meek. 

63.  —  Kindness  is  Power. 

A  CoNQt7EROR  is  Kindness ;  far  beyond 
The  armed  Victor,  who  doth  thundering  preach 
Civilization  with  the  cannon's  tongue. 
Woe-bought  delights,  and  bloody  benefits. 
A  gentle  word  begets  a  gentle  thought ; 
Drawing  the  sting  from  malice.     Better  thus. 
Than  bruise  with  hate  the  ignorant  Serpent's  head ; 
Who  knoweth  nothing  till  you  teach  it  him. 

64  —  Soldier's  Love. 

Cousin,  I  wear 
This  bluntness  as  a  shield.     But  when  you  come. 
Straightway  I  strip  my  bull-hide  armor  off. 
And  bare  my  heart  before  you.     Should  you  kill  me, 
Why  so  ;  I  '11  die  more  loyally  than  the  fool 
Who  whispers  of  love  through  tears.     I  never  weep. 


DRAMATIC   FRAGMENTS.  345 

Sometimes  I  shake,  indeed,  as  oaks  rent  down 
Shake  in  the  blast ;  but  not  a  groan  comes  forth, 
To  tell  what  pain  dwells  inwards.     Pity  me ! 
Love  me,  sweet  cousin  !     If  thou  'It  lend  me  a  grain 
Of  that  same  precious  heart,  I  '11  pay  thee  back 
With  tons  of  trouble. 


65.  —  A  PoeVs  Reply. 

Jeer  me  no  more.    What  would  you  have  ?    Speak  out ! 
You  bid  me  "  Dare  !  "     Well,  then,  I  dare  !     What 

more  ? 
You  bid  me  fear :  You  dread  lest  other  men 
"  Shall  write  their  fame  in  lightning;  shall  stand  forth, 
Laurelled  with  glory,  whilst  I  lie  i'  the  dark." 
In  God's  name,  is  there  not  wide  room  for  all  ? 
I  envy  no  man  ;  and  no  man  I  fear. 
Let  them  go  on.     Some  day,  /  Ul  burst  abroad  ; 
And  take  a  flight,  as  the  wild  eagles  do. 
When  from  the  summit  of  some  giddiest  crag 
They  plunge  into  the  immeasurable  air. 
And  dare  all  things,  and  never  turn  aside. 
Nor  shrink,  nor  stop,  nor  close  their  orbs,  until 
They  rest  upon  the  chariot  of  the  Sun  ! 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS, 


PART    THE    SECOND. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS 


PART    THE    SECOND. 


66.  —  A  Murderer  reproaches  his   Employer;  —  the 
Retort. 

Sir  Philip.  You  come  o'  the  sudden  ? 

Brand.  Ay,  Sir, —  unannounced. 

As  doth  the  wind,  or  raging  waters,  when 
They  burst  their  bonds,  and  on  the  hearths  of  men 
Rush  down  with  cries  of  ruin  ! 

Sir  Philip.  You  are  learned  : 

What  is  't  you  want  ? 

Brand.  Sir,  the  philosopher's  stone, — 

Justice  ;  long  sought,  ne'er  found.   I  've  kept  sad  watch, 
In  hopes  your  pity  would  dissolve  at  last. 
And  flow  upon  us  :   But  your  heart  is  steel, 
(Hard,  cold,  thrice-tempered  in  an  orphan's  tears,) 
And  will  not  melt,  nor  bend. 

Sir  Philip.  Where  doth  this  lead  ? 

Brand.  I  '11  tell  you,  so  you  've  patience.  —  Let  us 
turn 


350  ,  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

Our  thoughts  hack  through  the  crimes  of  thirty  years, 

And  we  shall  see  each  other  as  we  were ; 

Both  young,  and  one  imprudent.     I  —  (let  loose 

By  manhood  from  the  bondage  of  my  youth,) 

Plunged  into  riot :  You,  more  wise,  lent  out 

Your  wisdom  to  great  men,  who  paid  you  back 

(With  something  better  than  tlie  courtier's  coin) 

With  place  and  profit ;  on  which  helps  you  rose 

To  greatness.     Then,  —  a  sudden  tempest  wrecked 

The  vessel  where  your  fortunes  lay  embayed. 

And  hurled  you  down  to  your  ancient  poverty. 

—  Tired  of  the  toil  of  rising,  and  long  used 

To  silken  pleasures,  you  could  not  put  on 

Your  youthful  habits ;  but,  with  discontent 

(The  villain's  sword)  walked  thoughtful  up  and  down. 

Seeking  some  wretch  still  needier  than  yourself. 

And  came  on  —  me  !     I  was  —  ('t  was  my  black  hour  !) 

So  closely  knit  to  every  basest  grief. 

So  famished,  and  in  such  frightful  beggary, 

That  I  have  quarrelled  with  the  houseless  cur 

For  scraps  the  stomach  sickens  at.     You  saw  this ; 

And  (though  you  had  before  refused  my  wants) 

Proffered  —  I  know  not  what :  't  was  wealth,  —  't  was 

life; 
(For  from  my  bones  the  lean  and  traitorous  flesh 
Had  fled,  and  left  a  desperate  skeleton  ;) 
And  ready  was  I  to  do  aught  'gainst  earth, 
Nay,  'gainst  high  Heaven,  —  if  't  were  but  for  a  meal ! 
But,  what  's  all  this  }     You  know  't,  as  well  as  I. 
You  had  a  dying  brother,  —  he  a  son, 


DBAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  351 

Whose  life  eclipsed  and  hid  you  from  the  light :  — 
'T  was  but  a  little  blood,  and  all  was  over ! 
You  tempted,  and  —  I  fell. 

Sir  Philip.  Why,  you  were  then 

A  murderer,  ready  made.     What  cant  is  this  ? 
Were  you  not  paid  7  Your  bones  well  armed  with  flesh  ? 
That  flesh  apparelled  like  a  gentleman  ? 
Dog  that  you  are,  why,  —  when  all  's  fairly  done, 
The  bargain  consummate,  the  coin  paid  down, 
And  you  still  fattening  at  my  yearly  cost,  — 
VV' hy  do  you  come,  and  with  your  diseased  tongue 
Howl  at  bright  Fortune  .''     Will  you  starve  again  ? 
Shrink  into  bone  ?     Swear  yourself  out  aloud 
The  butcher  of  a  child?     Wilt  hang.?     Wilt  kneel, — 
And  let  the  scoffing  crowd  spit  scorn  upon  thee .'' 
What  is  't  you  ask .'     What  end  do  you  propose,  — 
That  thus,  with  insolent,  useless,  base  remorse, 
You  beard  me  in  my  house,  and  bid  me  shake 
Your  vulgar  hand  in  bloody  fellowship  ? 

67.  —  A  Man  without  Repentance. 

I  DO  not  grieve  that  I  am  here  alone  ; 
Nor  grieve  I  for  what  's  done.  Could  I  now  will 
That  Time  might  tread  his  weary  footsteps  back, 
And  earth  grow  bright  again,  I  would  not  have  't. 
What  use  ?  What  end  ?  My  soul  again  would  welcome 
Her  terrible  choice  :  Again  would  I,  undismayed, 
Wed  my  dark  fortune,  —  live  in  ghastly  dreams  ; 
Rather  than  bear  the  weight  of  beggary, 


S53  DIUMATIC    FBAGMENTS. 

The  curse  of  hunger,  —  toil,  contempt,  and  shame, 
And  die,  at  last,  —  a  felon,  or  a  slave. 


68.  —  A  Jew''s  Use  for  Riches. 

Jew.  My  Lord,  1  live  here  in  perpetual  fear ; 
My  only  friend  being  gold.     Five  times  already 
I  've  bought  this  wintered  body  from  the  flames ; 
As  oft,  repeals  from  exile.     Scorn  I  endure, 
And  hatred  bear,  from  all.     Were  I  but  poor, 
I  should  be  trod  on  like  the  common  dust, 
Gibbeted,  tortured  ;  —  I  must  keep  my  gold  ! 
It  is  my  arms,  —  my  shield.     The  Christian  wolves 
Would  worry  me,  did  I  not  cast  them  down 
The  yellow  bait,  which  bids  them  say,  "  Dog,  —  Jew  ! 
Live,  till  we  come  to-morrow ! " 

Rod.  You  could  lend 

Count  Gomez  on  his  bond  —  how  much  I  know  not  — 
But  twenty  times  the  weight  I  ask  of  thee. 

Jew.  He  's  an Inquisitor,  (doth  no  one  hear?) 

Hath  power;  —  can  help  me,  crush  me.     When  they 

drag  me. 
Blindfold  and  shaking,  through  the  horrid  dark, 
'T  is  sweet,  as  I  go  down  the  dungeon  steps. 
And  through  the  long,  cold,  silent,  vaulted  places, 
To  think  I  have  a  friend  who  's  judge  to-night, 
W^hom  gold  has  bought,  and  gold  can  ever  buy. 
So,  when  I  'm  questioned,  I  reply  with  tears. 
And  humble  prayers,  and  swear  I  've  made  a  vow 
To  give  in  Christian  alms  a  thousand  ducats, 
And  straight  —  my  cords  are  loosened  ! 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  353 

69.  —  Consolation  in  Poverty. 

Arm.  Why  do  we  murmur  ?    Are  we  poor  ?    What 's 
that  ? 
'T  is  but  to  breathe  the  air  of  industry ; 
To  use  sweet  exercise  from  morn  till  eve,  — 
Earn  health,  content,  rude  strength,  and  appetite ; 
And,  when  Night  draws  her  curtains  round  us,  sleep 
Through  all  the  unbroken  silence. 

Man.  Thou  'rt  a  sweet  comforter.     'T  is  not  so  bad, 
Methinks,  to  toil  before  the  eye  of  day. 

Arm.  If  there  be  angels  watching 

Man.  They  shall  see 

I  will  dig  lustily. 

Ar7n.  They  shall  see,  too, 

We  '11  not  repine,  because  we  have  no  longer 
A  little  leisure  that  we  lost  in  dreams  ! 


70.  —  The  same  subject. 

Man.  If  we  had  never  known  each  other,  sweet, 
We  both  might  have  been  happy. 

Arm.  Think  not  thus. 

It  was  the  unerring  sense  of  happiness 
That  led  us  gently  to  each  other's  arms  ; 
A  prophecy  more  sure  than  hope  can  be  ; 
And  we  obeyed  it. 

Man.  Therefore  are  we  here, 

Starving,  —  half-dead,  —  despairing ! 
23 


354  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

Arm.  Loving,  too : 

Thou  must  not  forget  that. 

Man.  O  sweet,  sweet  woman  ! 

Never !     The  subtle  world  will  find  its  road 
Into  the  deeps  o'  the  heart.     It  is  a  worm. 
Winding  its  way  through  every  obstacle,  — 
Grief,  joy,  dark  fortune,  —  till  it  finds  the  core, 
And  there  —  ill  luck !  —  it  preys. 

71.  —  The  Exultation  of  an  Heir. 

Jac.  He  sleeps  upon  his  marble  pillow,  now. 
Pale  as  a  peasant. 

Giul.  O,  a  million  times 

I  give  thee  joy. 

Jac.  Aj,  Giulio,  I  am  heir 

To  lordships,  mansions,  forests,  parks,  and  gems. 
He  had  three  mighty  manors  in  Castile  ; 
Two  broad  estates  in  Leon  ;  two  amidst 
The  mulberry-trees  of  Murcia,  and  huge  chests 
Crammed  full  of  ingots,  dug  by  naked  slaves 
Who  famished  on  coarse  bread.     Besides  all  these, 
There  bloom  plantations  in  the  East,  whose  fruits 
Are  pearls,  and  spice,  and  princely  diamonds ; 
And  in  Brazil  Pactolus  floods,  ne'er  dumb, 
Whose  waves  all  talk  in  gold  ! 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  355 

72.  —  Love. 

A.  The  tide  of  love  sets  from  me ! 

B.  Pshaw !  't  may  turn. 
Love  's  not  a  petty  stream,  runs  all  one  way  ; 

But  like  the  Ocean,  —  deep,  and  vast,  and  swayed 
By  Phantasy,  its  moon  !     This  hour  it  rolls 
Inward  upon  a  rough  and  barren  beach  ; 
To-morrow  far  away.     Dost  thou  despair 
'T  will  ever  reach  thee  ?     O,  there  's  none  so  bcise, 
But  have  Uieir  worshippers.     Dost  thou  not  know 
The  corse  which  one  unmannered  wave  rejects, 
The  next  will  ravish.     Thou  mayst  see  it  borne 
Far  out  from  sight  of  land,  and  there  't  will  ride 
Triumphant  on  the  shoulders  of  the  main  ; 
All  winds  and  billows  making  music  for  't, 
As  though  't  were  the  Jove  of  waters  ! 

73.  —  Revenge. 

My  Revenge 
Was  born  in  laughter  (as  our  highest  delights 
Oft  blush  at  first  through  t^rs) ;  —  but 't  will  endure,  — 
Like  oaks  which,  bom  in  May,  seem  slight  and  weak, 
But  having  a  score  of  winters  on  their  heads, 
Grow  strong  and  rugged,  —  so  doth  my  Revenge  ! 
Nought  shall  impoverish  it.     The  bounteous  years 
Shall  lend  their  seasons  and  apparel  it. 
And,  lest  its  roots  should  e'er  be  loosed  by  pity, 
We  '11  water  it  well  with  blood  ! 


356  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 


74.  —  A  Blush. 

Look,  look  !     The  summer  rises  in  her  cheeks. 
A  blush,  as  hot  as  June,  comes  flooding  o'er 
Her  too  proud  paleness.     Burning  modesty 
Warms  all  her  brow,  and  Beauty,  quite  abashed. 
Droops  her  twin  stars  to  earthward. 

75.  —  A  Buit. 

A.  Yon  fellow  is  a  fool,  Sir :  he  indeed 
Doth  not  profess  so  much  ;  but  't  is  his  trade. 
His  calling,  to  be  the  butt  of  other  men. 

He  thrives  by  't.    You  may  kick  him  :  —  but,  to-morrow, 

Be  sure  he  'U  borrow  money !     If  you  cast 

A  jibe  upon  him  that  would  shame  a  dog. 

He  '11  ask  what  time  you  dine.     A  laugh  to  him 

Is  worth  a  supper;  and  a  blow  —  't  is  wealth  ! 

To  look  at  these  things  philosophically 

B.  At   present   were   misplaced :  —  Dost    mean    so 

much  ? 
A.  Pardon  me,  Sir.     The  air  of  folly  best 
Doth  nourish  in  the  cynic  keenest  thoughts  : 
Dwells  he  'midst  men  of  sense  his  spirit  dies, 
Having  no  food  for  his  fierce  scorn  to  live  on. 

76.  —  Specimen  of  Courtiers. 

A.  Didst  ever  see  such  a  bundle  of  base  weeds  ? 

B.  Dost  think  there  's  one  of  all  this  useless  tribe 
Is  worth  a  real  } 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  357 

A.  Not  one  ;  and  yet  the  varlels 
Demand  a  lawyer's  fee  in  brave  pistoles, 

Ere  they  will  serve  you.     Look  on  him  who  bows  ! 
Satin-faced  villain  !  —  for  his  help  he  asks 
A  double  bribe,  with  twice  as  soft  a  tongue 
As  he  who  talks  plain  Spanish. 

B.  Who  is  that  ? 

A.  That  frothy  thing  ?  —  a  blank,  Sir :  but  the  next,  — 
Whose  acid  visage  wrinkles  into  frowns, 

Gains  favor  of  the  Duke  (who  dreads  his  jibes) 

By  slandering  all  who  're  honest.     He  perhaps 

May  do  us  some  sour  service.     Do  not  dream 

He  's  not  a  knave  because  he  frowns  on  you  ; 

For  that  's  his  fashion.     He  will  purse  a  bribe 

As  readily  as  he  who  's  bathed  in  smiles. 

They    're    villains    both,  —  born,    bred ;    even-paced 

rogues  ; 
The  difference  lies  in  the  manner ;  nothing  more. 

77.  —  Account  of  a  Boaster. 

B.  Sir,  he  's  a  fellow 
To  take  the  Devil  by  the  sinister  horn. 
And  twirl  him  like  a  top.     Some  years  ago, 

He  needs  must  fly  this  honest,  wholesome  country, 
To  snifl"  bad  air  in  France.    'T  was  there  (he  swore  't !) 
He  slew  a  regiment ;  and  —  with  his  eyes  — 
Murdered  a  world  of  women  !     Thence  he  went 
To  Rome ;  and  for  some  threepence  did  propose 
To  drink  up  brimming  Tiber  till  't  was  dry. 


358  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

A.  And  did  he  do  't  ? 

B.  Egad,  Sir,  I  can  't  tell  you: 
But  I  lean  much  to  doubt :  for  spite  o'  the  bet,  — 

I  've  heard  that  still  the  river's  bed  runs  moist, 
And  Rome  does  not  lack  water. 

78.  —  A  Bridal  Couple. 

Knit  up  thy  spirit !     Men  should  go  faced  in  brass. 

In  these  high  unabashed  bridal  times. 

Observe  thou  when  the  virgin  wife  dawns  forth. 

Like  blushing  morning  ;  —  Ha  !  look  where  she  comes. 

In  sweetness  like  the  hawthorn  buds  unblown  ; 

While  the  proud  bridegroom,  like  the  month  of  May, 

Steps  on  'midst  flowers. 

79.  —  A  Mature  Taste. 

Jac.  It  is  not  every  man  prefers  an  apple  ; 
For  some  like  best  the  crab.     'T  is  thus  with  thee. 

Rod.  Well,  well !     I  own  I  do  not  care  for  women 
Whose  kiss  is  like  a  peach.     Give  me  a  touch 
O'  the  austere  flavor.     Too  much  sweet  will  spoil 
The  daintiest  dish.     That  taste  is  immature, 
And  young,  which  feeds,  like  flies,  on  treacle,  cousin  : 
Salt,  spice,  hot  flavors,  suit  the  learned  tongue ; 
And  such  a  one  is  mine. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  359 


80.  —  The  Schoolmaster  abroad. 

Caraf.  I  am  the  bard 

Man.  Peace,  peace  !  I  know  you  well. 

1  've  heard  your  verses,  by  the  hour.  Sir,  twanged 
To  rascal  viols,  through  rogues'  noses,  —  pah  ! 
Just  at  my  hour  of  sleep.     I  '11  have  thee  hanged 
For  scurvy  rhymes.     Thou  'st  spread  a  plaigue  so  foul, 
So  foolish,  that  our  women  learn  to  spell ; 
Nay,  kings  decipher ;  and  our  lords  are  mad 
Until  they  can  write  nonsense.     Till  thou  cam'st. 
We  were  all  pure  in  happy  ignorance,  — 
Content,  —  with   love,   sport,   wine;   and    thought    of 

nothing. 
Save  what  should  be  for  dinner. 


81.  —  Nothing  perfect. 

Scorn  not  our  verse,  because  it  might  soar  higher. 

What 's  perfect  on  poor  earth  ?     Is  not  the  bird 

At  whose  sweet  song  the  forests  ache  with  love, 

Shorn  of  all  beauty  ?     Is  the  bittern's  cry 

As  merry  as  the  lark's  ?  the  lark's  as  soft 

As  the  lost  cuckoo's  ?     Nay,  the  lion  hath 

His  fault  ?  and  the  elephant,  (though  sage  as  wisdom,) 

May  grieve  he  lack  the  velvet  of  the  pard. 


360  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 


82.  —  Remonstrance. 

The  Heavens  themselves, 
Which  throw  their  shadows  on  the  floor  o'  the  earth, 
Show,  in  their  nature,  blackness :  Storms  and  rains 
Chequer  the  glory  of  their  brightest  hours. 
How  then  canst  thou,  who  walk'st  'neath  changeful  skies, 
E'er  hope  for  cloudless  fortune  } 


83.  —  The  Intellect  strengthened  by  Study. 

A.  If  I  do  this,  what  further  can  I  do .'' 

B.  Why,  more  than  ever.     Every  task  thou  dost 
Brings  strength  and  capability  to  act. 

He  who  doth  climb  the  difficult  mountain's  top. 
Will  the  next  day  outstrip  an  idler  man. 
Dip  thy  young  brain  in  wise  men's  deep  discourse, — 
In  books,  which,  though  they  freeze  thy  wit  awhile. 
Will  knit  thee,  i'  the  end,  with  wisdom. 

84.  —  Taste  in  Vice. 

He  is  too  hard  for  such  sweet  pleasures,  Sir. 
None  ever  relish  (even  the  raciest)  vice, 
'Less  they  've  a  little  virtue.     'T  is  the  sense 
Oi  wrong  that  sends  the  tingling  blood  abroad. 
They  who  do  ill,  yet  feel  no  preference  for  't. 
Do  it  in  base  and  tasteless  ignorance. 
Sin  should  be  seen  to  blush  through  Virtue's  cheeks, 
Mingling  the  rose  and  lily. 


DRAMATIC    FEAGMENTS.  361 

85. — A  Rich  Man. 

Rich  ?  ask'st  thou  if  he  's  rich  ?     Observe  me,  Sir ! 
His  money-bags  are  torpid,  —  they  're  so  full ! 
Crammed,  glutton-like,  with  lumps  of  spendthrift  gold, 
They  swell  their  sides  and  sleep  ! 

86.  —  Sadness  avoided  by  the  Wealthy. 

A.  "What  will  I  wear"  when  I  do  visit  the  Duke  ? 
Why,  black,  —  the  color  of  my  fortunes,  —  black. 

B.  Tush !  thou  shouldst  go  all  gay  and  bridegroom- 

like  ; 
Smiling  in  gold. 

C.  The  lady.  Sir,  speaks  well. 
Men  of  a  pampered  lot  care  not  to  look 

On  aught  that 's  mournful.     They  recoil  from  woe. 
As  sickly  natures  from  the  sight  of  pain. 
They  want  the  healthy,  sinewy  spirit,  that  makes 
Endurance  pleasant  like  to  exercise. 

87.  —  Loss  of  Strength. 

When  I  was  young,  I  was  as  hot  as  wrath. 

Swift,  like  the  wind,  and  thoughtless.     My  hair  fell 

In  coal-black  curls  upon  my  brawny  neck, 

And  sunshine  filled  my  eyes.     My  voice  was  clear  ; 

But  stern  as  storms  are,  when  they  scare  the  sea ! 

Now  —  now  —  look  on  me  !    Couldst  thou  think  despair 

Could  so  deform,  and  with  remorseless  showers 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

Wash  all  my  strength  away  ?     I,  who  could  once 
Strike  dead  the  hydra,  —  split  the  oak,  —  now  cannot 
Outwrestle  the  summer  urchin  in  his  play ! 

88.  — Questions  to  one  restored  from  Death. 

Sit  down  beside  me,  —  thou,  who  hast  left  so  lately 

The  calm,  dark  regions,  for  this  fretful  world, — 

Come  back  to  sorrow,  like  the  unthinking  bird 

Who  seeks  once  more  its  cage !     Sit  down  beside  me  ; 

And  tell  me  what  dim  dreams  have  fallen  on  thee. 

And  what  blank  aspects  and  unbodied  things 

Thou  met'st,  in  thy  pale  march  !     Didst  thou  not  see 

The  —  Dead?     Methinks,  I  saw  them,  once!     Some 

were  there 
By  their  own  serpent  passions  stung  to  death  ; 
Some  whom  too  little  love,  or  too  much  care. 
Made  white  as  winter ;  pining  skeletons. 
Whom  hunger  turned  to  stone  ;  mad  parents,  —  O, 
Who  watched,  for  aye,  some  little  corse  —  in  vain  ; 
A  ghastly  brotherhood,  who  hung  together. 
Knit  firm  by  misery  or  some  common  wrong ! 

89.  —  The  Grave. 

'T  IS  fenced  all  round  with  fears,  like  triple  brass : 
Rocks  of  despair  stand  round  it :  Seas  of  woe 
Shut  out  that  region  from  the  sunny  world  ; 
And  diabolic  Ghosts,  (whose  care  it  is, 
And  penalty,  to  keep  that  silent  land 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  363 

Untroubled  until  Doom,)  like  ghastly  giants. 
Stand  armed  beside  rebellious  bones,  and  scare 
The  restless  back  to  slumber. 


90.  —  Knowledge. 

A.  What  's  knowledge  ? 

B.  Sorrow,  —  sorrow  :  little  else. 
All  the  black  units  which  make  up  the  amount 

Of  human  life,  (sad  sum  of  deeds  and  thoughts !) 
Together  joined,  form  knowledge.     The  great  marks, 
Which  guide  us  onwards  through  tempestuous  seas, 
Are  beacons,  currents,  rocks.     The  sunny  places 
Teach  nothing,  save  that  now  and  then  we  sink. 
By  trusting  what  looks  fair.     The  gibbet  there 
Blurts  out  a  lesson  ;  and  the  clamorous  blast. 
That  shakes  yon  rattling  felon  in  his  chains, 
Screams  forth  a  dismal  moral. 

91.—^  Poor  Man. 

Had  I  been  born  a  stone,  I  might  have  been 

Free  from  that  curse,  —  a  heart :  but  I  bear  in  me 

A  throbbing  devil,  who  will  never  sleep. 

I  am  possessed  !     Care,  Care,  —  the  cruel  pain 

Which  children  bring  upon  the  parents'  soul. 

Eats  into  mine,  corrodes,  and  cankers  it. 

You  laugh  —  "7  do  not  starve  "  —  not  yet,  not  yet : 

But  wait  to-morrow  !     Famine  will  be  here. 

In  the  mean  time,  we've  still  grim  Care,  (whose  tooth 


364  DBAMATIC    FBAGMENTS. 

Is  like  the  tiger's,  —  sharp,)  lest  dreams  should  fall 
And  shadow  us  with  sweet  forgetfulness. 

92.  —  A  Constant  Soldier. 

Ay,  still  he  loves 
The  lion-tressed  Bellona,  like  a  bride  ; 
Woos  her  with  blows ;  and  when  his  limbs  all  sweat 
With  struggling  through  the  iron  ranks  of  war, 
Down  doth  he  tumble  on  the  tired  ground. 
Wipes  his  red  forehead  ;  cries,  "  How  brave  is  this  ! ' 
And  dreams  all  night  of  bloody  victory  ! 

93.  —  The  Heathen  Deities. 

Their  Gods !     What  were  their  Gods  ? 

There  's  Mars,  —  all  bloody-haired  ;  and  Hercules, 

Whose  soul  was  in  his  sinews ;  Pluto,  blacker 

Than  his  own  hell ;  Vulcan,  who  shook  his  horns 

At  every  limp  he  took !     Great  Bacchus  rode 

Upon  a  barrel ;  and  in  a  cockle-shell 

Neptune  kept  state.     Then,  Mercury  —  was  a  thief; 

Juno  —  a  shrew  ;  Pallas  —  a  prude,  at  best ; 

And  Venus  walked  the  clouds  in  search  of  lovers ! 

Only  great  Jove,  the  lord  and  thunderer. 

Sate  in  the  circle  of  his  starry  power*, 

And  frowned  "  I  will  ! "  to  all. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  865 

94.  —  Might  and  Right. 

Rod.  The  lawful  Right  ?     The  "  lawful ! "     What 
is  that  ? 
But  I  will  tell  thee.     Might  is  Right ;  and  when 
'T  is  written  in  red  letters,  "  This  is  law  ! " 
Then  might  is  law,  and  law  is  wise  and  right. 
Who  doubts  ?  We  '11  hang  him  by  the  statute, — straight ! 
S'death,  there  's  no  use  in  strength  of  limbs  or  brain, 
If  they  help  not  who  owns  them.     When  you  catch 
A  trout,  who  has  the  right,  and  who  the  law  ? 
Why,  you,  —  who  are  the  strong.     If  he  could  rise. 
And  shake  his  tail  against  your  lawful  right. 
He  'd  say,  —  "  All  this  is  'gainst  our  marine  laws ! 
"  You  rascals  on  dry  land  invade  our  realms, 
"  By  wrong,  and  by  no  law.     You  send  abroad 
*'  No  proclamations  ;  prove  no  injuries  ; 
"  Quote  no  good  reasons  ;  no  specific  code  ; 
"  But  straight,  when  you  desire  some  trout  to  eat, 
"You  pounce  upon  us  with  your  hell-barbed  hooks, 
"  And  treat  us  worse  than  we  were  Africans. 
"  We  '11  not  endure  't !  " 

Count.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Rod.  Right,  Count !     Right ! 

You  give  th'  old  answer —  ("  Might  is  Right ")  —  laugh 

loud 
At  their  remonstrance,  and  have,  sans  remorse, 
The  speaker  grilled  for  supper. 


366  DBAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

95,  —  Unions  dangerous. 

F.  His  wit  is  duller  than  a  priest's  discourse ; 
And  she  seems  coldly  honest. 

Gin.  True !  what  then  ? 

What  seemeth  nitre  near  the  cannon's  mouth  ? 
Cold,  cold.     What  the  charred  wood  ?     Why,  dull  as 

death. 
Yet,  —  married  to  each  other,  they  will  flame 
Damnation  through  a  land,  and  make  it  Hell. 

96.  —  Death  stationary. 

Should  we  look  on  him  now,  he  would  be  young ; 
Paler  than  stone,  perhaps,  —  but  young  as  when 
No  twice  two  hundred  years  had  wintered  him. 
Life  't  is  alone  grows  old  :  Immortal  Death 
Takes  no  step  nearer  to  the  goal  of  Time : 
One  cold,  brief  tread,  a  sigh,  and  then  to  sleep  :  — 
Magic  ne'er  moves  him  further. 

97.  —  A  Lover'' s  Likeness. 

Her  walk  is  like  the  wind ;  her  smile  more  sweet 

Than  sunshine,  when  it  gilds  the  buds  of  May. 

Rare  words  she  has,  and  merry,  like  the  lark ; 

And  songs,  —  which  were  too  sweet,  but  that  sometimes 

They  droop  and  sadden  like  the  pining  flute ; 

And  then  her  eyes,  (soft  planets,)  lose  their  light 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  367 

In  bashful  rain,  o'er  which  her  cloudy  hair 
Hangs,  like  the  night,  protecting. 

98.  —  Another. 

The  blessings  of  the  skies  all  wait  about  her  : 
Health,  Grace,  inimitable  Beauty,  wreathed 
Round  every  motion  :  —  On  her  lip,  the  rose 
Has  left  its  sweetness,  (for  what  bee  to  kiss  ?) 
And  from  the  darkening  Heaven  of  her  eyes, 
A  starry  Spirit  looks  out :  —  Can  it  be  Love  ? 

99.  —  Music. 

Now  Music  feedeth  on  the  silent  air,  — 
Like  Ocean,  who  upon  the  moonlight  shores 
Of  lone  Sigseum  steals  with  murmuring  noise,  — 
Devouring  the  bright  sands  and  purple  slopes, 
And  so,  content,  retires :  —  Yet  music  leaves 
Her  soul  upon  the  silence,  and  our  hearts 
Hear,  and  for  ever  hoard  those  golden  sounds. 
And  reproduce  them  sweet  in  after  hours. 

100.  —  The  Town. 

The  Town !  what  is  there  in  the  Town,  to  lure 
Our  household  dreams  away  from  the  fresh  flowers  ? 
Is  not  the  Town  a  monster,  ravenous  ? 
Fierce  ?  hydra-headed  ?  fed  by  peasants'  strength  ? 
Decked  out  with  plunder  of  the  fields?  along 


368  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

Whose  limbs  of  stone,  and  marble  arteries, 
Innumerous  emmets  crawl,  till  they  sink  down 
Dead  with  excess  of  feasting  ? 

101.  —  Specimen  of  a  Cavalier. 

Her  father  leaned,  from  th'  first,  to  Cromwell's  side, 

And  was  a  rank  and  stem  republican  : 

But  mine  was  a  Cavalier,  —  one  of  those  Spirits 

Born  in  all  ages  for  the  help  of  thrones ; 

A  careless  fellow,  somewhat  poor  in  virtue. 

Whose  blazing  honor  lit  a  stormy  life. 

That  spent  its  latest  puff  in  loyalty. 

He  followed  the  first  Charles,  and  fought  at  Worcester : 

Faced  death  and  danger  ;  saw  his  master  die  ; 

And  after  sought  his  son.     He  was  the  life 

O'  the  banished  court ;   laughed,  danced,  and  played 

o'  the  cittern  ; 
And,  when  he  died,  left  me  a  handsome  sword ; 
Two  suits  of  silk,  a  sentence  for  the  king 
(In  my  behalf)  ;  and  then  set  out  on  his  journey. 
To  make  good  friends  with  Heaven's  courtiers. 

102.  —  A  Publican  and  his  Customers. 

We  publicans,  Sir,  ever  lived  on  the  edge 
Of  other  secrets.     'T  is  our  stock  in  trade, 
To  know  what 's  doing  in  our  neighbor's  house, 
And  deal  't  out  with  our  liquor.     Some  few  rogues 
With   sun-scorched  cheeks  come  here,  't  is  true,  for 
nought 


DRAM.ATIC    FRAGMENTS.  369 

But  to  calm  their  stomachs  with  plain  provender  : 

But  choice  Spirits  love  to  mingle  with  their  wine 

Novelties, —  scandal !     Rather  than  be  dumb, 

They  '11  gossip  of  themselves.    There  's  Justice  Bolster 

Discharges  him  of  all  his  wealth  of  words 

Here,  Sir,  —  in  this  poor  room  !     There  's  not  a  case 

Of  note,  but  he  's  its  master.     From  the  thoughts 

Of  ministers  to  actions  at  the  assize,  — 

From  a  'scaped  murderer  to  a  vagrant  cat, — 

Nought  can  escape.     O,  Sir,  he  is  a  jewel  ; 

And  doth  absorb  my  beer  like  summer  sand  ! 

103.  —  A  new  retruchio. 

Do  I  not  know 
That  gentle  blood  (press  't  down  howe'er  you  will) 
VVill  mount  and  make  the  world  look  gravely  at  it. 
Dost  deem  that  aught  can  hide  in  beggar  rags 
A  heart  so  bold  as  mine  }     Have  I  not  seen 
The  sea  come  tumbling  on  our  heads,  and  laughed  .'' 
The  lightnings  on  the  line  singe  ships  to  ashes  ? 
Heard  the  wolves  howling  on  my  track  ?  and  felt 
That  cannibals  clustered  round  my  hiding-place  .* 
Have  I  not  stood  on  Etna,  when  she  shot 
Her  fiery  rivers  'gainst  the  affrighted  clouds  } 
And  dream'st  thou  aught  of  common  danger  now 
Shall  daunt  me  from  my  way  ! 


24 


370  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 


104.  —  Death. 

A.  Who,  save  Man, 
E'er  reckons  on  to-morrow  ?  or  dreads  death  ? 

B.  Death  !  what  is  Death, — at  whose  pale  picture  men 
Shake,  and  the  blood  grows  cold  ?     Is  he  one  thing  ? 
Dream  ?     Substance  ?     Shadow  ?    or    is   Death    more 

vague, — 
Made  up  of  many  fears,  which  band  together 
And  overthrow  the  soul  ?  —  Give  me  reply  ! 
Is  Death  so  terrible  ?     Why,  we  do  know 
Philosophy,  Religion,  Fame,  Revenge, 
Despair,  Ambition,  Shame,  all  conquer  it. 
The  Soldier  who  doth  face  it  every  day,  — 
The  feathered  Savage,  and  the  Sailor,  tossing 
All  night  upon  the  loose,  uncertain  deep. 
Laugh  it  to  scorn.     The  fish,  the  bird,  the  brute, 
(Though  each  doth  apprehend  the  sense  of  pain,) 
Never  dread  death.     It  is  a  weakness  bred 
Only  in  man.     Methinks,  if  we  build  up 
Our  proud  Distinction,  sole  supremacy. 
Upon  so  slight  foundation  as  our  fears, 
Our  fame  may  totter. 


105.  —  Night  Thoughts. 

T  IS  night,  —  still  night !     The  murmuring  world  lies 

still ! 
All  things  which  are  lie  still  and  whisper  not : 
The  owl,  the  bat,  the  clock  which  strikes  the  hour, 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  371 

And  summons  forgetful  man  to  think  of  Heaven, 

The  midnight  cricket  on  the  ashy  hearth, 

Are  quiet,  —  dumb  !  Hope,  Fear,  lie  drown'd  in  dreams ; 

And  conscience,  calmer  than  a  baby's  breath. 

Murders  the  heart  no  more.    Who  goes  ?    'T  is  nought, — 

Save  the  bird  Echo,  who  comes  back  to  me, 

Afraid  o'  the  silence.     Love  !  art  thou  asleep  ? 

Rose  o'  the  night,  on  whom  the  soft  dew  lies,  — 

Here  come  I,  Sweet,  mocking  the  nightingale, 

To  sing  of  endless  love,  passionate  pain, 

And  wishes  that  know  no  rest ! 


106.  —  Mute  SorroiD  the  most  poicerful. 

Let  not  thy  tale  tell  but  of  stormy  sorrows  ! 

She —  who  was  late  a  maid,  but  now  doth  lie 

In  Hymen's  bosom  like  a  rose  grown  pale, 

A  sad,  sweet,  wedded  wife  —  why  is  she  left 

Out  of  the  story  ?     Are  good  deeds,  —  great  griefs, 

That  live,  but  ne'er  complain,  —  nought.-*     What  are 

tears  ? 
Remorse,  —  deceit,  —  at  best  weak  water  drops, 
Which  wash  out  the  bloom  of  sorrow. 

}07.  — Flowers. 

We  have  left,  behind  us, 
The  riches  of  the  meadows,  —  and  now  come 
To  visit  the  virgin  Primrose  where  she  dwells, 
'Midst  harebells  and  the  wild-wood  hyacinths. 


372  DKAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

'T  is  here  she  keeps  her  court.     Dost  see  yon  bank 
The  sun  is  kissing  ?     Near,  —  go  near  !  for  there, 
('Neath   those    broad    leaves,    amidst   yon   stragghnj 

grasses,) 
Immaculate  odors  from  the  violet 
Spring  up  for  ever !     Like  sweet  thoughts  that  come 
Winged  from  the  maiden  fancy,  and  fly  off 
In  music  to  the  skies,  and  there  are  lost, 
These  ever-steaming  odors  seek  the  sun, 
And  fade  in  the  light  he  scatters. 

108.  —  A  Lover''s  Irresolution. 

My  heart  is  mad  :  —  why  not  my  brain  ?     O  witch  ! 

That  flaming  Hymen  now  would  quench  his  torch. 

Or  Hate,  betwixt  thy  fool  and  thee,  would  set 

Double  divorce  for  ever  !     Shall  I  go  ? 

I  cannot  quit  her :  but,  like  men  who  mock 

The  voice  of  thunder,  tarry  until  —  I  die  ! 

Shall  I  not  go  ?  —  I  will  not ;  though  the  tongues 

Of  chiding  virtue  rail  me  straight  to  stone. 

Here  will  I  stand,  —  a  statue,  fixed  and  firm, 

Before  the  fiery  altar  of  my  love, 

Both  worshipper  and  martyr. 

109. —  Useless  Fear. 

O.  There  is  a  gloomy  prophet  at  my  ear : 
He  whispers,  —  sad  and  low. 

F.  Tush  !     Shake  him  off. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  373 

The  shadow  that  each  ill  sends  forward,  ever 
Is  larger  than  the  ill.     When  that  the  thing 
You  dread  comes  near,  and  you  can  measure  it, 
Tlien  ruffle  up  thy  Courage,  —  till  it  stands 
'Tween  thee  and  danger,  like  a  champion ! 
Wait,  till  the  peril  come ;  then  boldly  look  at  't. 

1 10.  —  A  transient  Thought. 

Sometimes  a  dark  Thought  crossed 
My  fancy,  like  the  sullen  bat  that  flies 
Athwart  the  melancholy  moon  at  eve. 

111.  —  Reproof  lo  one  who  has  no  ear. 

L.  I  SEE  small  difference 

'Tween  one  sound  and  its  next.     All  seem  a-kin. 
And  run  on  the  same  feet,  ever. 

I.  Peace  !     Thou  want'st 

One  heavenly  sense,  and  speak'st  in  ignorance. 
Scest  thou  no  differing  shadows,  which  divide 
The  rose  and  poppy  ?     'T  is  the  same  with  sounds. 
There  's  not  a  minute  in  the  round  of  time. 
But 's  hinged  with  different  music.     In  that  small  space, 
Between  the  thought  and  its  swift  utterance,  — 
Ere  silence  buds  to  sound,  —  the  angels  listening 
Hear  infinite  varieties  of  song  ! 
And  they  who  turn  the  lightning-rapid  spheres 
Have  flown  an  evening's  journey  ! 


374  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

1 12.  —  Grief  fantastical. 

Nothing  can  vie  with  Sorrow  in  excess : 
Hope  's  gay,  and  Fear  is  strange,  and  Joy  grows  wild ; 
Yet  each  hath  shows  of  reason.     Grief  alone 
Amidst  her  pomp  is  high  fantastical. 

113.  —  Dreams. 

A.  Dream  is  the  Soul  of  Sleep  ;  and,  when  it  strays 
From  its  dark  caverns  in  the  inmost  brain, 

Then  Sleep  is  dead  :  —  But  it  returns,  and  then 
The  corpse  awakens,  —  lives,  —  is  bom  again 

B.  Then  dream  must  be  some  God 

A.  r  faith,  I  know  not. 

'T  is  a  strange  fellow  in  a  night-cap.  Sir, 
And  at  times  a  very  wild  somnambulist. 

1 14.  —  Age  double-sighted. 

Let  no  one  judge  the  worth  of  life,  save  he 

Whose  head  is  white  with  time.     The  ^''outhful  Spirit, 

Set  on  the  edge  o'  the  world,  hath  but  one  sight. 

And  looks  for  beauty  in  the  years  to  come  ; 

But  Age,  like  double-fronted  Janus,  gazes 

All  ways,  and  ponders  wisely  on  the  past. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  375 

115.  —  Philosophers  human. 

You  brag,  methinks,  somewhat  too  much,  of  late, 
Of  your  lamp-lit  philosophy.     One  bite 
Of  a  mad  cat —  (no  more  than  kills  a  tailor,) 
Will  put  an  end  to  't,  and  your  dreams  together. 

116.  —  Kings. 

.  .  .  Methinks 
There  's  something  lonely  in  the  state  of  kings ! 
None  dare  come  near  them.     As  the  eagle,  poised 
Upon  his  sightless  throne  in  upper  air, 
Scares  gentler  birds  away,  so  kings  (cut  off 
From  human  kindred,  by  the  curse  of  power) 
Are  shunned  and  live  alone.     Who  dare  come  near 
The  region  of  a  king  ?     There  is  a  wall 
(Invisible,  indeed,  yet  strong  and  high) 
Which  fences  kings  from  close  approach  of  men. 
They  live  respected  —  O,  that  cheat,  "  respect "  ! 
As  if  the  homage  which  abases  others 
Could  comfort  him  that  has  't.     Alone,  —  alone  ! 
Prisoned  in  ermine  and  a  velvet  chair. 
Shut  out  from  hope,  (the  height  being  all  attained,) 
Yet  touched  by  terrors,  —  what  can  soothe  a  king .'' 

117.  —  Revenge. 

Let  loose  your  strength,  blasts  of  the  burning  zone ! 
Join  all,  and  scorch  him  with  a  blistering  plague  ! 


876  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

Rain  damps  upon  his  bones !     Scald  all  his  brain, 
Till  he  go  mad.     Stay,  —  stop  !     I  '11  have  him  bound 
Fast  to  a  frozen  rock,  till  piercing  winds 
Stiffen  his  heart  to  ice.     He  shall  endure 
The  terrible  extremes  of  cold  and  fire, 
For  he  himself  was  ever  pitiless. 

118.  —  Picture  of  a  Hypochondriac. 

There  sits  he,  with  his  arms  across  his  heart, 
And  melancholy  eye-lids  like  the  Dawn, 
When  she  (the  sun  being  yet  unseen)  doth  gaze 
Coldly  upon  the  wet  and  frozen  flowers. 

119.  —  Infirmity  lies  in  the  Mind. 

We  do  what  we  desire.     'T  is  not  the  sinews 
Fail  when  we  falter,  but  the  infirm  thought. 
Thus  the  bald  Roman,  who  trod  down  the  world, 
Unto  his  shuddering  pilot  cried,  —  '•'•Wliat  fearl 
Thou  carriest  Ccesar  !  "  —  Dare,  —  and  it  is  done  ! 

120.  —  An  Ancient  Pile. 

Look  straight  before  you.     Thus,  as  now  you  see  it. 
Yon  pile  hath  stood,  in  all  its  stony  strength. 
Through  centuries  forgotten.     Ruinous  Time, 
The  outrageous  Thunder,  and  all  wasting  storms 
Have  striven  to  drag  it  down  ;  yet,  still  it  stands, 
Enduring  like  a  Truth,  from  age  to  age. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  377 

121.  —  The  Exaggeration  of  GrieJ. 

A.  And  this  is  all  a  fiction  ? 

B.  Ay,  't  is  thus 
Men  shadow  out  the  truth  when  they  are  sad. 
They  say  but  ill.  who  tell  us  that  Grief  speaks 
In  household  phrases.     Friend,  she  is  a  queen, 
Pale  Tragedy  by  name,  who  sears  our  brain. 
Until  it  fashions  forth  fantastic  shapes. 
Unnatural  to  the  eye  which  hath  no  tears. 

But,  seen  through  those,  are  true  like  other  things 
Which  misty  distance  veils  and  magnifies. 

122  —  A  Princess's  Dishonor. 

She  was  a  princess,  —  but  she  fell ;  and  now 
Her  shame  goes  blushing  through  a  line  of  kings  ! 

123.  —  A  Desperate  Man. 

You  walk  by  day  : 
/  with  the  negro.  Night !  —  When  all  is  dark. 
The  sick  moon  absent,  and  the  stars  all  hid, 
We  curse  together,  —  curee  all  shades  of  men, 
Like  brothers  in  one  great  calamity. 
Am  I  not  shorn  of  beams  ?     Is  not  my  fate 
Black  ?  starless  .'  sunless  ?    When  warm  airs  come  down 
From  heaven,  what  know  I  of  the  flowery  times .' 
What  of  abundant  harvest  hours  ?  —  nought,  nought ! 
I  'm  cold  ;  I  'm  hard.     The  wolf,  who  has  no  mate, 


378  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

And  scarce  a  meal,  and  's  forced  to  howl  all  night 
His  hunger  to  Siberian  snows,  doth  live 
In  a  world  too  bleak  for  pity :  —  So  do  I. 
/  am  a  wolf,  who  prowl  all  night  for  prey, 
Desperate,  remorseless ! 

124.  —  Suitable  Music. 

A.  Thoxj  lov'dst  this  light  and  dancing  music  once  ? 

B.  That  was  when  earth  was  quiet ;  now  't  is  mad. 
Light  music  fits  light  times :  —  But,  when  wild  Ocean 
Goes  bellowing  to  the  moon,  or  flings  her  hair, 

All  white  with  wrath,  upon  the  moaning  sands,  — 
AVhen  winds  come  muttering,  and  the  thickening  Night 
Grows  solemn  with  alarm,  as  from  its  den 
Some  Earthquake,  dragon-eyed,  lifting  its  head. 
Looks  reddening  on  us  from  the  inner  world, — 
Then  love  I  mighty  music  ! 

125.  —  A  Tender  Voice. 

Her  voice  is  soft ;  not  shrill  and  like  the  lark's, 
But  tenderer,  —  graver,  —  almost  hoarse  at  times  ; 
As  though  the  earnestness  of  love  prevailed, 
And  quelled  all  shriller  music. 

126.  — A  Fancy. 

I  'vE  sometimes  thought  that  I  could  shoot  me  down 
Unto  the  muddy  bottoms  of  tlie  sea, 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  379 

And  hold  my  breath  there, — till,  'midst  stones  and  shells, 
And  jewels  yet  unborn,  and  riches  sleeping, 
I  tore  up  fortune  by  her  golden  hair, 
And  grew  a  God  on  earth. 

127.  —  A  Young  Man's  Opinion  of  Age. 

Bid  me  not  trust  her  hoary  parent's  smile  ! 

I  cannot ;  for  I  read  foul  falsehoods  there. 

O  Guzman !     Pity  never  wore  gray  hairs  ; 

But  died  in  'ts  youth  !  —  Trust  not  a  furrowed  brow  : 

For  Time  digs  pits  where  hate  and  cunning  sleep  ; 

And  sixty  winter  winds  can  ne'er  pass  by. 

And  leave  the  heart  still  warm.     Age  is  a  grave  ; 

Where  Kindness,  and  quelled  Passion,  and  mute  Love, 

Lie,  hand  in  hand,  cold,  —  dead,  —  perhaps  forgotten  ! 

128.  —  A  Sceptic  in  Virtue. 

Our  blood  will  bear  no  lesson.     All  men  know 

That  Job  was  patient,  —  that  adulterous  Sin 

Writes  Hell  upon  our  foreheads,  —  that  thieves'  necks 

Are  forfeit  to  the  grave  and  frowning  Law  : 

Yet  who  is  chaste,  unless  his  veins  be  cold  ^ 

Who  calm,  if  tempted  ?     Who  that  wants,  is  honest  ? 

Who  lives,  from  mitred  Pope  to  ragged  monk, 

That 's  virtuous  all  for  virtue  ?     Tush,  not  one. 

The  mild  and  passionate  are  the  same  in  this. 

Sometimes  a  lure  more  potent  bids  man  swerve 

From  the  first  sin,  and  turn  to  darker  thoughts : 


380  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

Sometimes  he  doth  delay  the  accomplishment, — 
But  that  's  for  weightier  pleasure  ;  or  he  's  driven 
Back,  by  pale  fear  or  cunning  policy ; 
But  ne'er  bribed  by  poor  Virtue. 

129.  —  Slander  of  Women. 

Giul.  They   say   the   devil    Snake   did    tempt    the 
Woman  1 

But  —  ha,  ha  !  —  who  —  who  tempted  /jiwi  to  tempt  ? 

Give  me  good  answer  there  !    Why, '/  was  the  Woman  ! 

The  Fiend  had  somewhat  which  did  stir  his  blood, 

(If  blood  he  had.)  some  sting,  —  some  appetite. 

The  love  of  evil  ?     Well,  what  caused  the  love  ? 

What  was  't  that  first  begot  the  insane  touch. 

Which  crept  amidst  his  bright  and  rancorous  scales  ? 

What  sight  ?  or  sound  }  or  dream  ?     'T  was  she  —  the 
Woman  ! 

Still  doth  she  act  the  serpent  with  our  hearts  : 

Still  doth  she  twine  her  'round  our  hopes ;  and  kill. 

With  venomous  looks,  and  words  as  sharp  as  death, 

All  the  world's  pleasure  ! 

Jac.  They  are  constant  to  us 

Gitd.  They  are  as  constant  to  their  changing  blood. 

As  the  wild  billow  to  the  mounting  moon  ! 

No  further.     They  come  on,  swelliiig  with  ruin, 

And  overtake  the  quiet  soul  of  man. 


DRAMATIC    FBAGMENTS.  381 

130.  —  No  Love  to  be  despised. 

lol.  I  LAUGH  at  thy  base  verse. 

Jul.  That  is  not  well. 

You  should  have  mercy  on  my  desperate  pain. 
Disdain'st  thou  >     Well,  —  so  be  it !     I  will  love 
Through  all  misfortune ;  even  through  thy  disdain. 
I  've  striven  —  for  years  —  against  this  frightful  woe, 
Though  thou  didst  never  know  't.     The  lonely  Night 
Has  seen  me  wander  'midst  her  silent  hours, 
Darker  than  they,  with  my  too  great  despair ; 
And  the  poor  rhymes,  which  thou  dost  scorn  so  much, 
Were  dug  out  of  my  heart !  —  ay,  forced,  at  times. 
Through  burning,  blinding  tears !     Dost  thou  despise 
A  love  like  this  J     A  lady  should  not  scorn 
One  soul  that  loves  her,  howe'er  lowly  it  be. 
Love  is  an  offering  of  the  whole  heart,  Madam, 
A  sacrifice  of  all  that  poor  life  hath ; 
And  he  who  gives  his  "  all,"  whate'er  that  be. 
Gives  greatly,  —  and  deserveth  no  one's  scorn! 

131.  —  A  Lover  of  Sentiment. 

Giul.  She  's  proud  ;  but  she  's  a  woman,  and  shall  be 
Thine  own  —  dost  hear  ?  —  thine  own  ! 

Jac.  Estremaduran ! 

If  now  thou  mock'st  me,  thou  hadst  better  pull 
The  burning  sky  upon  thee  ! 

Giul.  Listen  to  me. 

She  's  not  (proud  as  she  seems)  all  arrogance. 


382  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

I  know  that  she  at  times  will  sigh,  —  and  weep  ; 
Tangle  blue  love-knots  ;  and  sing  out,  by  night, 
The  painfuUest  ditties  —  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Jac.  Great  lady ! 

Canst  thou  be  sad  ?  — then  I  forgive  thee  all ! 

Giul.  Immedicable  fool !     Sickness  can  't  cure  thee. 

Jac.  O  Giulio,  Giulio !  while  a  sand  is  falling, 
We  turn  from  hate  to  pity.     I,  who  late 
Abhorred  the  crimsoning  pride  upon  her  cheek, 
Now  read  in  it  a  different  history. 
Urge  me  no  more.     Henceforth  I  am  her  friend. 

132.—^  Protegi. 

A.  I  HAVE  a  worm,  a  little,  petted  thing. 
Which  I  rear  up.     I  see  't  not ;  yet  I  know 
'T  is  ashy  like  the  adder,  and  has  fangs. 
Seldom  it  sleeps,  and  then  it  dreams  of  food  ; 
So  gnaws  for  ever.     I  have  fed  this  worm 
With  mine  own  heart,  like  the  fond  pelican. 

B.  Smother  it.  Count :  't  is  a  misshapen  child. 
Which  may  beget  new  monsters. 

A.  1  will  let 

My  heart's  stream  out  upon  it,  some  loud  night, 
When  winds  grow  clamorous,  and  rough  Nature  knits 
Our  resolution  up  to  deeds  of  daring. 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  383 


133.  —  The  General  Law. 


All  things  which  live  and  are,  love  quiet  hours. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  the  waves,  caught  up  by  storms, 
Kiss  Heaven  and  murmur,  but  they  straight  retire. 
Sometimes,  the  red  and  busy  Earthquake  lifts 
His  head  above  the  hills  and  looks  on  us. 
Sometimes  a  star  drops.     Sometimes  Heaven  itself 
Grows  dark,  and  loses  its  celestial  blue. 
But  calm  returneth.     Thus  doth  man  (made  fit 
To  league  with  Fortune  in  her  varying  moods) 
Rise  on  the  wings  of  fear,  or  grow  love-mad, 
Yet  sinks  at  last  to  earth,  and  dreams  in  quiet. 

134.—^  Bold  Man. 

Fear  ? 
I  know  not  Fear.     It  is  a  ghost  that  haunts 
The  timid  heart.     'T  is  a  dream,  which  waking  men 
Should  scorn  and  put  aside.     A  girl  —  a  child  — 
A  thing  that  was  a  man,  —  (but  now  is  grown 
A  shaking  palsy,  winter-white  with  age,)  — 
These  may  bow  down  to  Fear :  but  I  am  —  man  ! 
The  image  of  the  Gods  who  know  not  fear, — 
Far  from  the  cradle,  farther  from  the  grave ! 

135.  —  A  Brother. 

When  the  Sun  walks  upon  the  blue  sea-waters, 
Smiling  tlie  shadows  from  yon  purple  hills, 


38t  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

We  pace  this  shore,  —  I  and  my  brother  here. 

Good  Gerald.     We  arise  with  the  shrill  lark. 

And  both  unbind  our  brows  from  sullen  dreams  ; 

And  then  doth  my  dear  Brother,  who  hath  worn 

His  cheek  all  pallid  with  perpetual  thought. 

Enrich  me  with  sweet  words  ;  and  oft  a  smile 

Will  stray  amidst  his  lessons,  as  he  marks 

New  wonder  paint  my  cheek,  or  fondly  reads, 

Upon  the  burning  page  of  my  black  eyes. 

The  truth  reflected  which  he  casts  on  me  :  — 

For  he  is  like  the  Sun,  —  giving  me  light ; 

Pouring  into  the  caves  of  my  young  brain 

Knowledge  from  his  bright  fountains  !     Thus  it  is 

I  drink  in  the  starry  truth.     Science  and  Art, 

And  Learning  pale,  all  crown  my  thoughts  with  flowers  ; 

And  Music  waiteth  on  me,  sad  and  sweet ; 

And  great  Imagination,  for  my  sake, 

Lets  loose  her  dreams,  and  bids  her  wonders  flow 

By  me,  —  until  I  talk  in  poetry  ! 

136.  —  An  Epitaph. 

Mark,  when  he  died,  his  tombs,  his  epitaphs ! 
Men  did  not  pluck  the  ostrich  for  his  sake ; 
Nor  dye  't  in  sable.     No  black  steeds  were  there, 
Caparisoned  in  woe  ;  no  hired  crowds  ; 
No  hearse,  wherein  the  crumbling  clay  (imprisoned 
Like  ammunition  in  a  tumbril)  rolled 
Rattling  along  the  street,  and  silenced  grief; 
No  arch  whereon  the  bloody  laurel  hung ; 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  385 

No  Stone  ;  no  gilded  verse  ;  —  poor  common  shows ! 
But  teare,  and  tearful  words,  and  sighs  as  deep 
As  sorrow  is,  —  these  were  his  epitaphs  ! 
Thus,  (fitly  graced,)  he  lieth  now,  inumed 
In  hearts  that  loved  him,  on  whose  tender  sides 
Are  graved  his  many  virtues.     When  they  perish,  — 
He  's  lost !  — and  so  't  should  be.     The  poet's  name 
And  hero's  —  on  the  brazen  book  of  Time, 
Are  writ  in  sunbeams,  by  Fame's  loving  hand  ; 
But  none  record  the  household  virtues  there. 
These  better  sleep  (when  all  dear  friends  are  fled) 
In  endless  and  serene  oblivion  ! 


137. —  We  love  one  different  from  ourselves. 

Giul.  I  HTTNGER  for  her,  and  am  all  athirst ! 
Her  scorn  affronts  me,  and  doth  make  me  mad. 
Mine  eyes  —  these  eyes,  are  wet  with  heavy  drops  ! 
Would'st  think  me  such  a  fool  ? 

Ferd.  If  she  disdain  thee, 

Love,  and  be  quiet,  coz. 

Giul.  How?     What?     Be  still? 

Dost  think  I  am  a  wild  beast  tamed  by  wrongs  ? 
If  one,  I  am  the  hyaena  !  —  for  he  sheds  tears, 
And  bites  the  while  he  's  howling:  — but  I  'm  quiet ! 

Ferd.    I  thought  thou  lov'dst  a  rose-cheek'd  girl,  and 
merry  ; 
A  laugher  of  sixteen  summers ;  such  there  are  : 
But  she  is  paler  than  a  primrose  morning, 
When  Winter  weds  with  Spring  ! 
23 


386  DBAMATIC    FRAGMENTS. 

Giul.  'T  is  all  the  better. 

It  is  my  nature  to  abhor  in  others 
That  lightness  which  doth  please  me  in  myself. 
I  love  not  mine  own  parallel.     The  old  giants, 
Who  stood  as  tall  as  trees,  loved  little  women, 
Or  there  's  no  truth  in  fable.     Thus  do  I : 
I  love  a  sober  face,  a  modest  eye, 
A  step  demure,  a  mien  as  grave  as  virtue. 

138.  —  Salisfaclion  in  a  Blow. 

Giul.  You  say,  "  We  '11  have  no  blood."   Then  let  us 
wash 
His  throat  with  poison.     I  know  rogues  who  deal  in 
Black  aconite,  and  such  like  lazy  drinks ; 
But  one  sells  a  quicker  juice,  whereof  a  drop 
Will  kill  —  in  a  breath  —  a  giant ! 

Ferd.  That  is  good. 

Giul.  Yet  steel  is  surer :  and  a  blow  (while  't  sends 
Life  through  our  limbs,  like  a  swift  race)  doth  calm 
The  turbulent  spirits,  and  gives  time  for  vengeance. 
I  hate  to  see  the  brute  I  hate  fall  dead 
Without  a  struggle.     Let  's  kill  him  like  men. 
And  stand  up  freshened  from  the  exercise  ! 

139.  —  A  Lady  drowned. 

Is  she  dead  ?  .  .  . 
Why  so  shall  I  be, —  ere  these  Autumn  blasts 
Have  blown  on  the  beard  of  Winter.     Is  she  dead .' 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENTS.  3*^7 

Ay,  she  is  dead,  —  quite  dead  !    The  wild  Sea  kissed  her 
With  its  cold  white  lips,  and  then  — put  her  to  sleep  : 
She  has  a  sand  pillow,  and  a  water  sheet, 
And  never  turns  her.  head  or  knows  't  is  morning  ! 


THE    END. 


tlU': 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


mm 


mm 

gl|ll|!j| 

ilirr' 


